


Cramer Street: Part I

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [4]
Category: Columbo, Newhart, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Some Will Some Won't (1970), Supernatural
Genre: Acting, Anger, Army, Assassins & Hitmen, Beer, Berkshire, Betrayal, Cake, Caring, Cats, China, Codes & Ciphers, Corruption, Death, Disease, Disguise, Egypt, Eloping, Embarrassment, England (Country), Exhaustion, F/M, Family, Fire, Framing Story, Friendship, Gay Sex, Golf, Government Conspiracy, History, Inheritance, Jealousy, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, London, Love, M/M, Makeup, Male Models, Male Prostitution, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Murder, Nannies, Nobility, Nudity, Organized Crime, Panties, Plans, Police, Politics, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Religion, Revenge, Royalty, Rugby, Science, Secrets, Serial Killers, Sherlock's Pipe, Shropshire, Slavery, Slow Burn, Somerset, Spiritualism, Staffordshire, Supernatural elements (minor), Tanning, The Deerstalker Hat, Theatre, Theft, Trains, United States, Unrequited Love, Vendettas, Victorian, Wales, Wiltshire, fan fiction, mining, stagecoaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 75,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1878-1880. Holmes's and Watson's first few years in Cramer Street. Includes three of the detective's most important cases: the curious matter of the unpowdered nose which was to have severe longer-term consequences for Holmes, the shocking Tankerville Club affair which brings the prodigious Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles into his life, and the repellent philanthropist case which introduced Watson to what would turn out to be a key part of his friend's past. Also featuring Lieutenant Frank Columbo, a tawer, the Musgrave Ritual, a matter concerning thirty thousand dead men, hopelessly corrupt policemen, and two cases which shocked Holmes to the core: the forest fire murder and a hysterical woman whose secret he 'uncovers' then wishes fervently that he had not.
Relationships: Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 50
Kudos: 30





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts), [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> New cases are marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1878 **

**Case 20: The Fury Of The Woman Scorned**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A promising young policeman lies dead – Holmes must find the killer_

**Case 21: Every Loser Wins ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes finds a lipstick in the doctor's bag – and the explanation is...._

**Interlude: Domino Effect**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Sometimes you want to but just can't_

**Case 22: The Adventure Of The Unpowdered Nose**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A murder involving powder, jugs – and some long-term consequences_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

** 1879 **

**Case 23: The Adventure Of The Odd-Job-Man ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Golf turns out to be a means to an end at the New Hart in Salisbury_

**Interlude: Safe Surrender**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer has times when he just needs to give in_

**Case 24: The Adventure Of The Fountain-Pen ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes's brother is shocked over a case with royal connections_

**Case 25: The Adventure Of Towton Field ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_As if thirty thousand dead men were not enough_

**Case 26: The Adventure Of The Hysterical Woman ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The Chelsea case which so traumatized poor Holmes_

**Case 27: The Adventure Of The Brothers-In-Arms**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The peculiar persecution of Mr. John Vincent Harden_

**Case 28: The Adventure Of The Repellent Philanthropist**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Tragic echoes of Holmes's youth as even he cannot secure justice_

**Interlude: Tut**  
by Sergeant Gawain LeStrade  
_A policeman's lot is.... sometimes just annoying_

**Case 29: The Shocking Business At The Tankerville Club**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Mankind at its bestial worst in a case which shocked both men_

**Case 30: The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Betrayal and theft, in a case which ends with nearly eighty deaths_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

** 1880 **

**Case 31: The Adventure Of The Poison Pen**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Someone is targeting the unpleasant Duke of Cromartyshire – why?_

**Case 32: The Adventure Of Drake's Drum ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes conjures up a ghost to secure justice for two slain men_

**Interlude: Sandwiches**  
by Mr. Campbell Kerr, Esquire  
_A molly-man is always prepared_

**Case 33: Some Will, Some Won't**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The beneficiaries of a will find that their bequests come with catches_

**Case 34: The Adventure Of The Troubled Tawer ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A simple mix-up devolves into an attempt to destroy a businessman_

**Case 35: The Adventure Of The Tousled Tyro**  
by Sergeant Gawain LeStrade  
_Lieutenant Frank Columbo visits London and helps solve a case_

**Interlude: The Devil's Work**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer comes home early – and someone is caught out_

**Case 36: The Life And Death Of The Spencer John Gang**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Four men die – and the reasons behind their deaths is a shock_

**Case 37: Around The Horne ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_There are few holes that the Metropolitan Police cannot dig deeper_

**Case 38: Burning Injustice ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A dark case where Holmes finds what happens when justice fails_

**Case 39: A Study In Scarlet**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A man is seemingly scared to death, but Holmes thinks otherwise_

**Interlude: The Best-Laid Plans**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The detective plans for a long and happy future.... er...._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	2. Case 20: The Fury Of The Woman Scorned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1878\. Danger is always at the shoulder of every copper – but when Death claims one of the brave men at LeStrade's station, the Grim Reaper leaves behind a tell-tale calling-card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the St. Pancras case, where a cap was found beside a dead policeman.  
> TW: Mention of suicide.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Holmes and I were set to spend five years at Cramer Street with Miss Letitia Hellingly as our landlady. She was quiet enough and had the most definite advantage of not being her overbearing (in every sense) sister Mrs. Evadne Hall. The way that other female had looked at my poor friend was positively predatory, and quite unbecoming even of her.

Cramer Street, ironically named after the famous violinist Wilhelm Cramer (1746-1799), lies in the Marylebone district of the capital and is a north-south thoroughfare that runs parallel to Marylebone High Street, being a connecting road between Moxon Street in the north and St. Vincent Street in the south. The road is barely the length of a school athletics track and we were fortunate enough to live towards the northern end from where it was but a short walk to Paddington Street Gardens (the other side of which was Dorset Street of which I shall tell later). Sir Christopher Wren may have been frustrated in his plans to rebuild London as a city of open boulevards after the Great Fire two centuries before but there were and still are many green areas to enjoy. It was also as I have said still reasonably close to my practice, where I was slowly increasing both my workload and standing.

Unusually for central London the houses along our road still had names and we lived in what was euphemistically called 'Laurel Cottage' even though it was as much of a town house as our later and more famous residence in Baker Street. I can name the place because, sad to say, a fire ravaged the buildings along the whole road in 1910 after which they were all condemned and pulled down. As of today (1936) only those on our own (eastern) side have been replaced.

It was during our time there that the 'Strand' magazine first took an interest in my scribblings and I was able to present the wonders of my genius friend's deductive powers to the rest of the world. Not I have to say without some bumps along the way; he was at first cool towards my efforts but later came to accept and even appreciate them. Even though we knew from the start that our stay in this place would be limited to just five years, I still felt happy there. Our second home together.

Next thing I knew, I would be bringing him his pipe and slippers! _And that had better damn well not be a smirk!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It would have been totally cynical of me to comment that things had to be serious when LeStrade called round on a day when there was not cake to be had. So I did not say it, especially as our policeman friend, whose regular expression could have featured in an illustrated dictionary under 'lugubrious', looked down even for him.

“We lost young Simpkins”, the sergeant said mournfully.

I had no idea who he was talking about but of course Holmes knew.

“Lost him?” he asked sharply. “How?”

LeStrade sighed.

“He was investigating a break-in down Wellstream Terrace and the blackguard must've still been inside the place. Shot him point blank; the poor boy didn't stand a chance. He was just married and all.”

Holmes must have caught my blank expression because he explained.

“Percival Simpkins was one of the brightest young constables at the station”, he said. “A real credit to the service.”

He turned back to our friend.

“So who is the other woman?”

I honestly thought that our visitor was going to have a seizure. I handed him a hastily-poured whisky and he drank it down in one shot before staring in shock at Holmes.

“How the blazes did you know _that?”_ he demanded in horror. “Please God don't tell me those vermin in the press have dug out the story so soon? The poor boy isn't even cold!”

“Elementary”, Holmes said calmly. “Were this to be a regular case then the killing of one of your own men would demand the full focus of the whole station as you rightly sought to avenge your lost colleague. Bringing in an outside agency like myself, even by such as your good self, would not even be considered. Yet you have come straight to us hence there must be a certain element in the case which makes discretion desirable, since even policemen gossip and you would not wish his poor widow to have any further troubles. Besides, given the young man's sterling reputation something that would besmirch the same is clearly implied because, sad to say, that sort of thing sells copies.”

LeStrade calmed down a little and nodded.

“It could hardly be worse”, he sighed. “In fact no, it couldn't be worse. Simpkins was right down on the eastern edge of our patch when it happened. Wellstream Terrace, though it officially lies in St. Pancras, is a very well-to-do new development on Sergeant Wright's patch next door and we.....uh.... we don't always get on.”

I frowned. Much as I admired most of the work that our police service did, I felt that this territorial attitude by some policemen did them no favours at all. On the other hand I had met Sergeant Matthew Wright on one occasion myself and I doubted that anyone could 'get on' with him. His wife had I knew left him due to his 'unreasonable behaviour' and the only thing that had surprised me was that she had made the mistake of going up the aisle with the useless dolt in the first place! She had won a settlement against him in the divorce and he had responded by using his position to harass her, which had led to a return to court and an even larger bill for him which he had only paid when his job had come under threat. 

It said something unflattering if accurate about the Metropolitan Police Service that they had not disciplined the dolt anyway but I knew that he had relatives somewhere so presumably they had 'protected' him. Worse, he had been in the service for longer than either of our cake-loving friends and was almost eligible to apply for promotion to inspector, which was a dreadful thought.

“So he was killed on someone else's 'patch'”, Holmes mused. “And the chances of Sergeant Wright co-operating at all in the matter will be minimal, as in none. That makes things harder but not impossible. Tell me what you know.”

The sergeant sat back. 

“Simpkins went out at six yesterday morning”, he said. “Around half-past nine he was in St. Gerard's Drive when he must have heard something in the neighbouring street, Wellstream Terrace. There's a small cut-through alleyway and he went down that.”

“How do you know this?” Holmes asked.

“Simpkins was found dead at number thirty-three”, the policeman said. “He'd been struck before he was shot; I suppose whoever did it must have either panicked or decided to make sure he couldn't finger them later. Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc at number thirty-one was out in his garden; he said he heard shouting from next door then saw Simpkins emerge from the alleyway and run up to the house. He tried the front door first but that was a solid piece of oak – I've been there – so he went and tried round the back. He must have gotten into the house then been shot.”

“What did Mr. Beauclerc do when he heard the shot?” I asked.

“He _claims_ that he didn't hear it”, LeStrade said, clearly more than a little dubious over that. “When Simpkins didn't emerge and there was silence, he became concerned. He went out the back and used the alleyway that cuts across to Kent House Road where he found one of Wright's men, and they went back to the house. Too late for poor Simpkins but I suppose I can see why Mr. Beauclerc wanted to be careful, 'specially as he's a weedy little runt.”

“I find it hard to believe that someone would not hear something as loud as a gunshot”, I said dubiously. “Especially as he was outside at the time.”

“Don't like the fellow myself but there's something else to explain that”, LeStrade said. “There was a cap found next to the body with a bullet-hole in it. The killer must have shot through the cap to muffle the sound; there were no marks around the wound like you usually get when the shot is done close in.”

Holmes nodded.

“So”, he said heavily. “Who is the shady lady who lives at number thirty-three?”

“Miss Catriona Siddick”, the policeman said sourly, “and it would be stretching things to call her a lady. Wright interviewed her himself and one of his constables took great pleasure in telling me it was the first time he'd ever seen his boss sweat! Unfortunately Mr. Beauclerc saw her leaving for her work half an hour before it all went down and he stayed in his garden all that time.”

I thought to myself that the shady lady could easily have slipped back in using the back door, although I could see no obvious motive on her part. Holmes shook his head for some reason.

“You have neglected to mention the name of the fellow that you have hold on for this crime, LeStrade”, he said mildly.

The policeman rolled his eyes at my friend's omniscience.

“Any chance you can use those freakish superpowers of yours to put your finger on the guilty party?” he asked hopefully.

“Who have you arrested?” I asked.

“Not arrested, just taken in for questioning”, our visitor said. “Mr. Frederick Quimby, the fellow who lives on the other side at number thirty-five. He's a picture-framer and works in a shop off the Strand but he was off work with the flu. We checked that with his doctor but it was true and his work confirmed getting a message from him. I wondered about that – most people work through that sort of thing or risk losing their jobs – but the fellow at his shop told me that he himself is very susceptible to almost anything and his father who owns the place insists no-one comes in when ill, preferring to pay them to stay clear. Mr. Beauclerc said that he thought Mr. Quimby might have had a thing for Miss Siddick though he didn't know if she felt anything in return.”

“Did Mr. Quimby not hear the shot?” I asked.

“No”, LeStrade said, “but he does photography work at his house and has a dark room in his cellar. He says that he was down there and the place does have a double door to prevent anyone from blundering in. He admitted that he did like Miss Siddick but though she had seemed friendly at first, things hadn't gone anywhere. Of course he said that he thought she liked Mr. Beauclerc more, which given his appearance I found hard to believe!”

“Does the garrulous Mr. Beauclerc have any evidence for his suspicions of his neighbours?” Holmes asked.

“Not much”, the policeman admitted. “He's a right woman when it comes to spying on the neighbours, though Val would clock me one for saying as much. He _says_ he is sure he saw him enter the house through the back door on at least one occasion. He was putting out the rubbish at the time and just happened to see him.”

It was interesting to see the burly sergeant blush under Holmes's azure gaze. Almost as rare as seeing him without a slice of cake in front of him.

“Hmm”, Holmes said, looking askance at me for some reason (I was beginning to empathize with our visitor over that omniscience!). “Tell me, what do Miss Siddick and Mr. Beauclerc do for a living?”

“She is a dressmaker and works for some high-end fashion place in the West End”, the policeman said. “Bit like that Ricoletti woman now safely back with her Eye-tie friends. Miss Siddick operates totally freelance though; she goes round to a list of clients each day and her first was some batty old dear over Putney way who was convinced she'd arrived with the Prince of Wales in tow! Then again, given that gentleman's reputation she may not have been wrong! Mr. Beauclerc works on the railways as a clerk though I don't know which company. He was off that day because he had worked the previous Sunday.”

“I would like to see that cap”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately I suppose that it is currently in Sergeant Wright's station, and we all know that he would not take kindly to a consulting detective taking an interest in his case.”

“I can take you to see it if you think it would help, sir”, LeStrade offered. “What do you think?”

“I think that someone has been extremely clever”, Holmes said. “But even the cleverest people slip up from time to time. We can but hope. Lead on LeStrade.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As I had expected Sergeant Matthew Wright refused to have any truck with a consulting detective examining what he regarded as _his_ evidence. But he could not object to LeStrade examining it and Holmes just happening to stand opposite him when he did so although I heard several disapproving tuts. I also caught at least two of the sergeant's constables smirking at their superior's very obvious displeasure; bullies and their ilk are never liked.

The cap was in my humble opinion quite unremarkable. It was clearly from some railway company – I could see where a round badge had been removed from the front – and of the cheap sort that are commonly available. Otherwise its only distinguishing feature was the prominent bullet-hole in it. Holmes only asked one question while examining it and LeStrade looked at him strangely when he questioned whether any of the three people involved owned a cat (only Mr. Beauclerc did). I thought the whole exercise pointless and said as much to my friend, who smiled at me.

“On the contrary”, he said. “That small and rather cheap item of clothing told me two very important things about the case.”

We were squashed into a carriage riding back to LeStrade's station so we both turned to stare at him.

“What things?” the sergeant asked.

“Who committed the crime and, equally importantly, who did _not_ commit the crime”, Holmes said simply. “But a court will need more proof, especially as it may well be a hanging affair.”

“Was Simpkins seeing this woman?” our friend asked anxiously.

“You may rest assured that he was not”, Sherlock said firmly. “Which reminds me; LeStrade, will Simpkins's service qualify his poor widow for a pension? I know that officers have to have served for some time before that can happen.”

Our friend's face fell. Clearly he had not thought of that particular problem, understandably in the circumstances.

“Never mind”, Holmes said comfortingly. “We shall think of something.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We dropped LeStrade off at his station and headed back to Cramer Street, stopping at the post-office near the house where Holmes immediately fired off several telegrams. I wondered what he was up to but I knew (or at least hoped) that he would tell me in the fullness of time.

Three days passed and several more telegrams came and went, until apparently it was time for action. I expected us to go and collect LeStrade but instead Holmes directed the driver to Wellstream Terrace.

“I am going to do something a little unethical to bring about justice in this matter”, he said. “Hence I would rather that our faithful friend were not there to see me do it, otherwise he himself may have questions to answer.”

We reached our destination and Holmes paid the driver. Unusually all the houses in the terrace had names as well as numbers and Miss Siddick's was 'Pomfret'. A policeman was still stationed outside and eyed us suspiciously.

“Do not worry, constable”, Holmes said amiably. “Our business is with number thirty-one or, as I see it is called, 'Buffers'.”

I thought not for the first time that some people should not have been allowed to choose names for their houses. Holmes grinned at my head-shaking and led the way up the path to knock at the front door. It was opened by a fellow whom was presumably the local busyb.... Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc, who peered at us curiously. He was much as LeStrade had described him; I could see why he had been dubious about Mr. Quimby's claims that any woman would look twice at this pipsqueak.

“I am not buying anything”, he said loftily. “Go away.”

Holmes smiled at him.

“We are here about the murder that you were involved in the other day”, he said quietly.

The man went pale but ushered us in. 

“What do you want?” he demanded once we were in his hallway.

“I would rather talk about this seated, if you do not mind”, Holmes said amiably. “After all, matters of murder are not the sort of thing to discuss in the hallway. Unless you would like me to call that nice constable in to 'help'?”

The man looked horrified but led us into his main room. He did not offer us any drinks and just stared at us.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Let us just say that we are detectives”, Holmes smiled, “and that we are here for your welfare.”

“What do you mean?” the man demanded. Holmes sighed.

“We are investigating a certain character who if they run true to form will shortly be committing their second murder”, he said as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “Of your good self.”

The man started.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, he said although I noted that he looked worried. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Miss Catriona Siddick”, he said. “One of those women who find it not just incomprehensible that a man will refuse their advances, but utterly and completely unforgivable. She made a play for the affections of a handsome young London constable and was amazed that she was rejected on the flimsy grounds that he was happily married. She was not to be rejected like that and so plotted a most vicious revenge. Involving you.”

The man swallowed hard.

“She obtained a house in a road that was ideally situated for two reasons”, Holmes continued. “First it was next to where her target patrolled but over in a neighbouring station's patch. The villainess knew how parochial London's constabularies are and that a crime committed in such a location would have its investigation hindered by the inevitable and unnecessary 'turf war'. Second, she had no intention of risking her own neck in the matter. She intended to employ someone else to do the actual murder. A handy neighbour.”

I stared in astonishment.

“She plays on the affections of both her gentleman neighbours and decides that you are the more gull.... the more _amenable_. Before you know it you are writing your will to leave all your money to her and lending more than a sympathetic ear when she tells you the horrendous tale of a former suitor of hers who has joined the Metropolitan Police and is using his new job to harass her. Finally she has you round one day when she claims that he had tried to first molest her and then to kill her, but that she had managed to knock him out.”

The man looked set to faint.

“Do you have access to her house?” Holmes asked brusquely.

“Yes”, he said. “Not the front door – she would not let me have the key until we were married – but there is a connecting door to which we both have a key. I have a table on my side of it but I know that her side is clear.”

“Open it”, Holmes commanded. 

The man moved faster than I would have thought possible and the door was open for us in barely a minute.

“Now”, Holmes said gravely, “you will come with us into the house. I need to search for certain things therein. You will sit on a chair and say nothing. Once I am done we will talk. Do you understand?”

I do not think that I have ever seen a man so frightened in my entire life. He was physically trembling as he followed us into the house and Holmes set about his work, He only stopped to ask one question and once again it was a strange one, although I would later see its relevance.

“Which railway company employs you, sir?”

The man looked horrified clearly suspecting some sort of trap in Holmes's words, but eventually he managed an answer.

“The Great Western, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Holmes resumed his searching.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were back in 'Buffers'. Holmes had, rather oddly I thought, written a short note and left it folded up on a table in 'Pomfret' before leaving, and now he faced a man who still looked deathly pale. Also one for whom I had zero sympathy.

“I have but one question for you”, Holmes said, “but you should be warned that an untruthful answer at this stage of the proceedings would most definitely not be in your best interests. When Miss Siddick told you to, _did you shoot Constable Simpkins?”_

The man shook his head.

“Words, please!” Holmes growled.

“No sir!” he almost yelled. “She called me a coward and said that I was nothing to her for refusing 'that small service' – a small service; killing a fellow human being! - but I could not. I swear!”

“It is fortunate for you that I know you speak the truth”, Holmes said. “Bad as you have been you drew back at the last, so that shall count for something. Here.”

He handed the man a card.

“What is this, sir?” he asked, his hand trembling.

“You will now do the following”, Holmes said. “You will spend the next half-hour packing as many of your possessions as you can into what you can carry, then you will take the deeds of your house and go to that address where you must ask for a 'Mr. Golightly'. He offers a service whereby he will advance cash for the deeds of your house – not of course their full value but enough to set you up in the New World to which you will leave on the next ship. I know that two are sailing today and bearing in mind that your neighbour will not be best pleased at your sudden departure, I most strongly suggest that you are on the first one. If she realizes that you are for the docks, she may be able to intercept the second.”

“But sir....”

“Alternatively”, Holmes said, “you could remain here and face some _very_ difficult questions from the police, the likelihood of a long time in gaol for your role in aiding and abetting the murder of a London constable – something upon which our judges rightly frown – and the absolute certainty that your employers in Paddington will be terminating your employment the moment that they hear of your activities and choice of 'partner'. I am a fair man sir, and because you were honest with me and you did not pull that trigger, you shall have that choice. But do not test my patience any further, or....”

The man was already fleeing, grabbing a large handbag off the side as he went.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“How could you know that _he_ did not kill Simpkins?” I asked as we were driven back to Cramer Street. 

“Because Miss Siddick made every effort to implicate one or both of her neighbours in the crime”, he said. “Three things gave her away, two of which concerned that cap.”

“I still do not see what you saw in that”, I said, not at all petulantly. “It looked to me just like an old cap.”

“It was perhaps a little unfair of me to word it the way I did”, he conceded. “I shall elaborate. It was one thing that was on the cap and two things that were not.”

“Now I am even more at sea!” I complained. “You do that deliberately!”

He smiled but, I noted, did not deny it. Harrumph!

“One of the things missing was cat hair”, he said. “It is one of the most adhesive substances known to man, so the fact that there was none on it clearly meant that it had not been in Mr. Beauclerc's house for any length of time despite being a former railwayman's cap. Doubtless Miss Siddick purchased it second-hand somewhere or other in an attempt to implicate him.”

“What was the other thing missing?” I asked.

“My examination of the cap showed that the badge that had once adorned it came from the North London Railway”, he said. “However – and LeStrade had confirmed this for me – Mr. Beauclerc told us the truth when he said that he worked for the Great Western Railway. That was the one thing that was on the cap; soot particles. One might have thought that damning, but the Great Western Railway improves the performances of its locomotive stable by using quality Welsh coal. That leads to a much finer soot particle easily detectable by someone looking for it, and which was not present. Miss Siddick doubtless applied some soot from her own fireplace thinking that that would further implicate Mr. Beauclerc. It would after all be the word of a poor, defenceless, attractive woman against a man who she would doubtless have claimed had been pestering her and who killed a rival for her affections. That and the evidence would probably have been enough for Mr. Beauclerc to hang, which was the other reason that I allowed him to flee.”

“The demon!” I growled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following evening Holmes passed me the late edition of the 'Times' in which he had ringed a certain small article.

“'Second death at Wellstream Terrace'”, I read. “'A Miss Catriona Siddick was found dead in her house, the same one in which a London policeman recently met an untimely demise. On this occasion however there are no suspicious circumstances'.”

I put the paper down.

“Suicide?” I asked. He nodded.

“Inevitably.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“I was exceptionally fortunate that my criminal friend Mr. Kuznetsov has a cousin who is married to a London policeman”, he said. “I called on him the other day – I did not wish to make you worry over his involvement – and he arranged for one of his employees to call on Miss Siddick and 'explain' matters to her. I did leave her a note warning her of the approaching danger but apparently she did not take my warning, although had she tried to leave the house after reading it she would have found out the hard way. She took the word of a man she knew could have her killed before she could have reached the front gate.”

I was silent. I did not approve of such methods but I could see that unless this woman was stopped there might well be more deaths.

“Inspector Macdonald has told LeStrade that the Service wishes to reward me for my help in this matter”, he said. I appreciated the slight change of subject.

“That would be fair”, I conceded. He shook his head.

“No”, he said. “I asked instead that they use the reward money to honour Mrs. Simpkins's rights as a widow despite her husband's lack of qualifying service. Moreover I shall be pressing for the service as a whole to make better provision for those who support our brave men.”

I smiled at his passionate speech. I was quiet proud of him for that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Percival Simpkins left one unexpected legacy – eight months after his demise, his widow gave birth to a baby boy whom she called Lancelot (her late husband's choice). To its credit the Metropolitan Police Service paid her her full due and the dead man's colleagues at the station also raised a considerable sum, which Holmes matched from his own pocket; I was even prouder of my friend for that. And in the way that these things so often happen he would much later help the grown Mr. Lancelot Simpkins in a not unimportant matter in his own life.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	3. Case 21. Every Loser Wins ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1876\. The second of three cases that rounded off a year of changed addresses for Holmes and Watson, and all three involved the fairer sex. Here the great detective gets a shock, and a famous actress tried to take advantage of her celebrity by starting what for her might be a lucrative fashion trend – until Holmes takes an interest.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Our rooms at Cramer Street were, I considered, a step up from Montague Street and I noted that Watson took an extra effort to keep our main room tidy. I did try to keep things in order – I really did! - but when I urgently required a certain document I often got just a little carried away, and would find it only to realize I had thrown half the contents of my room onto the floor. Poor Watson always looked so disappointed when he came home to find the new mess, although he never said anything. But that look was heart-rending in itself, and I always made a note to try to do better in future – right until I got carried away again, unfortunately.

Today however I had other and rather more pressing concerns. Watson had had to rush through the last part half of his dinner when an urgent call had arrived from one of his most important (i.e. richest) clients, and as I knew one of the far too few who paid their bills on time. He had bolted out with his doctor's bag and for once had left his side of the room looking almost untidy (all right, nothing like as bad as mine; no need to go on about it). I finished my meal then went and sat in my chair, only to find that I was sitting on something that must have fallen out of Watson's medical bag which he had placed there while he had been getting ready. I reached down to find out what it was – and froze!

_Lipstick!_

For some reason I shuddered. What the blazes was someone as upright and honest as John Hamish Watson doing with a lady's lipstick in his bag? There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, so if I sat here and thought long enough it would surely come to me.

It did not. Also, for some reason the room seemed strangely cold that day.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It seemed an interminable wait until Watson arrived back and I was sure that there was something wrong with the clock which claimed that it was a mere hour and a quarter. I had studied the offending make-up item intently but had only come to the conclusion that it was an unusual dark red, almost violet, and had the initials 'G.O.D.' on the base as well as what was presumably meant to be a halo on the top. It struck me as ineffably cheap and tawdry, and I could not think what connection such an item would have to someone like my.... like Watson. I also had to pour myself a strong drink when the horrible thought as to what my mother might make of this not only crossed my mind but gave me several terrifying images in the process. Sometimes being possessed of such a brilliant mind was a curse, not a blessing!

When my friend did finally come in the wonderful Miss Hellingly had some bacon sandwiches ready as she knew that he had missed part of his dinner, and I.... well, it was bacon and who cannot be hungry for that? She also very generously sent up a plate for me (I had only snaffled the bacon out of his sandwiches that one† time), although for once I was so worried that I barely noticed it. At least it distracted me while we ate and I wondered how to ask him about the lipstick without seeming too intrusive. 

Fortunately the Gods of luck were with me that evening.

“I do not suppose that you have seen my lipstick?”

I coughed violently and nearly managed a return of that last rasher. He looked at me in surprise.

“My friend Peter Greenwood gave it to me today”, he said, for some reason unsurprised at the effect his words were having on me. “Anne is a fan of this actress Miss Grace Debonair, and she purchased it. It is one that the actress uses herself when she is out and about.”‡

“Why does an otherwise reliable friend start offering you lipstick?” I asked, not at all querulously. I quite liked Watson's fellow doctor Peter Greenwood who had got married last year; Watson had gone to the wedding and had offered to ask for an invite for me as well but I had declined as I generally loathed such things. The young blond fellow who had introduced the Aluminium Crotch case to us had been Watson's contact point for the two years that he had nursed his late mother up until her death, as well as helping him get his place at the Bloomsbury Surgery. My friend had mentioned more than once how grateful he had been for the fellow's help.

_(This is a good point to add that it was most fortunate and far-sighted of me to have regarded Doctor Greenwood as someone worth befriending myself, as one day he would help save my lipstick-owning friend’s life)._

“He is a much better judge of human nature than me”, Watson said, as self-effacing as ever. “He does not like this actress at all although he never says as much to Anne, and he thinks that her giving away anything is suspicious. I said that I would do some tests on it for him.”

“The Case Of The Free Make-Up!” I smiled. “Never let it be said that life does not bring variety to our door.”

“You think that there is a case here?” he asked, surprised.

“I agree with you that your friend is an excellent judge of character”, I said, “and if he thinks that something is wrong here then he may well be right. Do you know of this Miss Debonair at all? Come to that, is that really her real name?”

“It is, although I read somewhere that it is the English version of the same word in French or Italian”, he said. “She is often in the newspapers for her strange ways, although of course they put it down to her being a foreigner. She is not among the most famous of actresses but they say that she can perform well.”

“Enough to reach those social pages that you never read!” I smiled, knowing that that remark would elicit a pout of displeasure. _And there it was!_

“She is known for actually applying her make-up in public”, he said frostily, “which is quite unheard of. Perhaps she is trying to start a trend?”

 _In which case perhaps the odd free lipstick is a small price for being in the newspapers_ , I thought. Damnation, I was becoming as catty as... Watson!

No. That could never happen, not to someone like me.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I thought about this matter for some time and eventually decided to contact my cousin Luke, who might be able to find out if I was right. There was no particular hurry, which was just as well as he was away for a long weekend with his lover Tiny, which for Luke would be a long and hard weekend followed by very little sitting down in the first half of next week. He had made a smart remark about all that bacon putting weight on me the last time we had met at the gymnasium, so I had decided to slip Tiny a few extra 'supplies' for his weekend in the sun, or at least in Buckinghamshire mid-November. For my oversharing cousin it would be a much longer and very painful journey back to London come Sunday!

Impressively even for Tiny, it was Wednesday before I heard from my cousin, and then it was a request to meet him at one of our clubs. Clearly the stairs at Cramer Street were too much for him after his 'long and hard' weekend! Still he did not need to sit down _that_ slowly!

“I am never insulting you again!”, he muttered. “God, Tiny had to carry me out to my cab, and the ride to the station.... the driver stopped because I was screaming so much. Tiny tried really hard not to smirk but failed dismally, then he looked so pitiful that I nearly let him have his way with me in the cab!”

I smiled at that. Tiny had one of the greatest 'woe is me' faces ever; I knew (although Luke had never told me) that he had never 'bowled' with the behemoth as the latter did not like it, and Luke was a pushover. Come to that, if I pushed him now he would likely roll off his chair! I was sorely tempted....

“I did that research that you asked for”, he said, smothering a yawn. “And I am pleased to say that you were only partly right.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“I could always slip some more 'supplies' to Tiny.....”

“Damnation, you were mostly right!” he grumbled. “Leave a man some pride here.”

“Why?” I grinned. “Tiny did not!”

“True”, he agreed. “The factory is in France, Dieppe to be exact. They do not just make lipstick on its own however; their speciality it making what you might call presentation packs, lipsticks and face-powder in one kit.”

“Why is that?” I wondered.

“I am afraid that that is probably something that only a woman can answer”, he said. “You could always ask your mother.”

I glared at him for that. The odds on Tiny being even better supplied for their next weekend together had just shortened considerably, as not coincidentally had his potential lifespan!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Since I knew that my mother was working on yet another of her terrible stories – this latest horror was about a group of cooks who started out in a cooking competition that somehow descended into an orgy, 'The Great British Bake-Off' – I instead called on Doctor Greenwood's wife Anne to ask her about her actress.

“She is more famous in France than here”, she explained, “and she does not go down well with some of the British theatre critics who, she says, do not appreciate _real_ talent. But she is very beautiful although Peter does not like her looks at all. He thinks that she looks unhealthy, and he does not like her campaigning for political causes.”

“Does she look unhealthy?” I asked.

“She is famed for her pale skin and dark make-up”, she explained, “which with her red hair makes quite a contrast. She is doing a rare two-week stint at the 'Gaumont' starting next week and Peter did offer to take me, the dear, but I managed to change that to his paying for me to take my friend and fellow fan Susan. He would have been bored rigid the whole evening.”

I smiled at that. I was finally beginning to see what was afoot here.

“Tell me about the competition”, I said.

She looked most surprised, as I had guessed she might.

“That was only in the newspapers this morning”, she said. “Yes, for each of the twenty-four performances she is going to be using a different monogrammed make-up kit containing blusher and lipstick, and people can enter a competition to have the chance to buy each one of the twenty-four. Peter has already said he will enter me for it provided I do not use it when I am out with him; as I said he does not like the look.”

“That is very kind of him”, I said, handing back the borrowed lipstick. “I only hope that your star actress does not have feet of clay, as some idols do these days.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

By this time I knew that Miss Debonair did indeed have feet of clay as well as a sharp money-making talent. But because I liked Doctor Greenwood and his wife had been so helpful, I waited until she had seen her performance before alerting the newspapers as to what the actress's game was.

Watson drew a sharp breath as he read the newspaper that morning. For once he did not have to accidentally glance at the social pages in passing to see news of Miss Grace Debonair. She was on the front page!

“This is shocking!” he exclaimed. “It turns out that she commissioned over two thousand of these make-up boxes to be made, then planned to tell everyone who had entered the competition that they were one of the lucky twenty-four winners and that their pack would be sent to them once they had sent in their cheque. There were hundreds of entrants so she would have made a small fortune!”

“Shocking indeed!” I agreed with a smile. “But then that is the French for you. Or the Italians.”

He looked at me suspiciously. 

“Did you set this up?” he asked.

“I rather think Miss Debonair set it up”, I said. “I merely gave it a push so that it fell over. She will not only lose a lot of money on this, her career as an actress will be set back considerably.”

“Only if the Continental newspapers find out”, he corrected.

I knew full well that they did not have to. Thanks to some careful leaks the story had broken in both France and Italy as well in England. Miss Debonair had sacrificed her career on the altar of money, and had likely made a lot of women better-looking in the process.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† This is either a misprint or Holmes has a decidedly curious spelling of the number between five and seven._  
_‡ This story is based on a real-life character, turn-of-the-century actress Sarah Bernhardt who was pretty much the first woman ever to apply lipstick and make-up while out in public. Until then women only ever applied it at home._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	4. Interlude: Domino Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1878\. It is not that one does not trust people, exactly.....

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

Some time back I read an article in a newspaper about some strange fellow who, seemingly bereft of anything useful to do with his life, had decided to set up a large number of dominoes in such a way that pushing over the first one led to a 'cascade' effect that, I suppose, looked amusing from some angles. I remembered it when I later drew the comparison between my own abilities and all those dominoes. One false breeze or untimely earth tremor, and all my careful plans for the future would go toppling over in all the wrong directions!

I was in Kent, outside the house of a lady who had recently been murdered – yes, I had known in advance, and no, I had not been able to do anything about it much as I would have liked to. Her death was one of those early dominoes which would push over a later one, and it had had to happen. Although those responsible would pay for it, courtesy of my brother who would be down here before long. I had better get moving.

As well as the Sight I had also developed some useful lock-picking skills and I was soon inside the house, facing one of the ugliest pieces of furniture that it has ever been my displeasure to see. Seriously, I would have paid to have had it taken somewhere and used as firewood, or failing that have happily taken an axe to it myself. Especially as this horror would be responsible for causing my brother so much unhappiness.

I checked around it and quickly found the two letters that had been hidden on it. One had to be allowed to reach him in a few years' time, but the other needed delaying a while longer so I slipped it into my pocket and made my way out of the place, stopping to stare briefly at a sex of six absolutely hideous toby-jugs on a mantle-piece that might well have been chosen to match the sheer hideousness of the dresser.

As it happened, they had not.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	5. Case 22: The Adventure Of The Unpowdered Nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1878\. Make-up again, at least of the theatrical sort. This was a curious affair and, although Sherlock solved it, it had already set in train a sequence of events that some years later would shock the great detective to the core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the Margate case.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It may seem surprising in view of the later developments arising from it that the next case from our new home in Cramer Street was not included in the original sixty stories covering my brilliant friend's illustrious career. However the lady who brought the case to our attention was, rightly I suspect, fearful that any further iteration of the events on the Thanet Coast that cold December day might lead to people wishing to visit the house in which a murder had taken place. Even had she not been one of Holmes's friends I would have respected her wish for privacy. Now that she has passed on to a better place I can reveal to the world the strange case of the unpowdered nose, the case which ultimately changed my friend's view of his life forever.

I was returning to our rooms one day in early December feeling bitterly cold despite my coat. I really needed a new one but as usual my straitened finances meant that it would have to wait, although fortunately an unexpected flurry of late payers to the surgery's coffers had at least improved my bank statements from dire to sufferable. 

I was still mulling over this small dose of festive cheer when I re-entered our rooms. To my surprise there was a small sprig of mistletoe over the door.

“It was worth putting it there to see poor Miss Hellingly's face”, Holmes chuckled from his chair. “She looked as if she might need your professional services!”

I smiled at that.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked. He had made his usual half-hearted attempt to tidy up the disaster area that was his side of the room, which rare event usually presaged the arrival of someone or other (obviously not his brother Randall who would have merited no such effort apart from the fitting of a trap-door leading to an alligator pit, which he had, after some hesitation, most unfairly refused to have installed). The place still looked a complete mess of course.

“John Hamish Watson, the great detective!” he teased. “Yes, I am expecting a lady visitor. A client, and a rare family friend.”

“Who is coming?” I asked.

“A Mrs. Olivia Fulready”, he said. “She is sister to the midwife who delivered me into this world of sorrows, the late Mrs. Bethania Garsdale. Mrs. Fulready wrote and asked if she might call on me while she was in London; I presume that her sister's recent death is the reason behind her request.”

“She wishes to consult you over the death?” I asked. “A suspicious one?”

“It may be so”, he conceded. “She is due in about ten minutes so I will use that time to brief you about what little I know of her.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sure enough some ten minutes later Mrs. Olivia Fulready was shown into our room. She was an elderly but well-presented lady; Holmes had told me that her husband had died some years back and that she owned a fair-sized house on the sea-front at Margate in Kent where she usually rented out several rooms. In the summer season her late sister Mrs. Garsdale had moved in with her and rented her own house out to holidaymakers, the ladies sharing the income generated. 

Mrs. Fulready carefully took her seat and pulled back her veil.

“I have come to you today”, she said in a low and melodious voice, “because of my sister's murder.”

I started. Holmes of course remained calm.

“The London papers have been mostly interested in this latest Afghan war†”, he said smoothly. “I read the report of your sister's passing, and of course I sent my condolences. I can only say that the report struck me as singularly uninformative, and did not mention any killing or suspicious circumstance. Am I to assume that some detail or other was deliberately withheld from the authorities?”

She nodded, looking around almost as if she feared someone might be listening in on our conversation.

“It was incredibly strange”, she said. “Fortunately Sergeant Bettenson was very helpful and made sure that certain... information did not reach the newspapers. He felt that if they knew the full details then people might descend on the house; you know how that can happen these days. A murder is bad enough but this.....”

She tailed off. Holmes poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her then placed a reassuring hand on her free wrist.

“Be assured, madam, that we will do everything in our power to help you”, he said firmly. “First however we need _all_ the facts. What precisely did the newspapers not get told?”

She took a deep breath before continuing.

“I was the one who found her”, she said, speaking quickly as if getting the words out faster was less painful. “Beth had taken up with the local theatre group; an odd bunch but harmless enough. I was going to go into town to do some shopping and she was to share my cab then walk the short distance to the theatre. Except that when I went in she.... she was dead! Strangled!”

“The unusual circumstance?” Holmes pressed gently. She shuddered.

“She had done her face up with that white powder she used for the play or whatever they were doing”, our visitor said. “Her face was white except for her nose; I thought that very odd. And then it hit me! _He_ might still be in the house!”

“'He'?” I asked, confused.

“The killer!” she hissed, looking around the room as if she almost expected said killer to leap out from behind the screen (not much of a danger as they would have certainly suffered some form of injury had they tried to cross the mess that was Holmes's side of the room).

My friend looked pointedly at me for some reason, then pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“I have several questions that I hope you can answer”, he said. “First, what was the weather like that day?”

She looked surprised at that, as was I, but answered readily enough.

“On-off rain”, she said. “Almost sleet at times; I got quite wet hurrying from the cab to the house. But why is that important?”

“I find it strange that your sister would apply face-powder, let alone leaving her nose undone, and then walk through rain”, Holmes said. “Surely she must have realized that when she applied it? It seems irrational, and I do not like irrational. Another question, and I am afraid that I must be a little blunt. Was your sister wealthy?”

Our visitor blushed.

“She made ends meet”, she said carefully.

Holmes sighed.

“Come, madam”, he said gently. “I can only help you if you are completely honest with me. What are you not telling me?”

She seemed to be finding our rug quite fascinating. I had the distinct impression that she was choosing her words carefully. I wondered why.

“After she assisted at your birth”, our visitor said slowly, “Beth went to work for the Huttons up in Holmfirth, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. A lovely family, their youngest needed constant care or some such thing. She was there for over fifteen years before the break-in.”

“Break-in?” Holmes asked.

“The Hutton Diamonds”, she said softly. “She was lucky that it happened on her half-day or she would have been killed along with the rest of them; she had been supposed to have been at work but she had swapped her day off that week.”

I remembered that story now, from 'Sixty-Nine. A gang of thieves had broken into the great house and murdered the entire family. Although the villains had all been caught and hung, the diamonds had never been found. 

“You are not suggesting that your sister was in any way involved?” I asked incredulously. She shook her head.

“Beth was as shocked as I was by the whole affair”, she said. “You may remember that the killers persuaded a local lad who worked at the stables to let them in and he got hard labour as a result, despite being simple or whatever it was they said about him. All she had from a decade and a half of loyal service was that hideous set of jugs she always displayed so proudly on her mantle-piece. I would not have given them house room!”

Holmes looked up sharply.

“Jugs?” he said a little too loudly. “What sort of jugs?”

She looked surprised at his interest but answered.

“A set of six toby-jugs, each of a famous author”, she said. “Mr. Shakespeare was the only one I recognized by sight, although each had the name of the person that they were meant to represent engraved on its plinth. I never went close enough to read them; they were all quite horrible!”

“Are they still in your sister's house?” Holmes asked urgently.

“Yes”, our visitor said. “Why? Are they important in some way?”

“We must go there at once”, Holmes said, much to my surprise. “Mrs. Fulready, may I ask what are your plans for the rest of today?”

“I have an appointment with the lawyers in Whitehall”, she said. “I had arranged to take in a show this afternoon and stay with a friend tonight, but if you think...”

“It is probably best for you to continue with those plans, for now at least”, Holmes said a little more calmly. “The doctor and I will travel to Margate by the first available train; if you leave us your friend's address we will contact you there if we need to.”

She nodded at that, wrote her friend's address on a piece of paper and left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sergeant Gregson looked at us from across his desk. Even with my limited (as in virtually non-existent) detective skills I could see that Holmes's mention of the Hutton Diamonds had sparked a reaction, and not a good one.

“Many of us remember _that_ farrago!” he said, his voice bitter. “The press tried to fix the blame on the village constable who was seeing one of the maids in the house. Eventually we got the right man despite them, although to be fair the local newspaper did help by uncovering some piece of evidence or other if I remember rightly. What is your interest in the case, sir?”

“The missing diamonds”, Holmes said calmly. “Something that has crossed my path suggests as to where they may have been hidden. What can you tell us about the aftermath of the case, Gregson?”

The sergeant scratched his blond thatch. 

“Constable Kent left the force once the fuss had died down”, he said. “Married his local girl and went abroad somewhere; British Columbia I think although I did hear he did well for himself over there. The gang all got the drop and their accomplice was given hard labour; he must still be inside. It only stayed in the newspapers' line of fire for so long because of that God-awful Mrs. Silverman!”

“Who is she?” Holmes asked.

“The late colonel's sister”, the sergeant said. “She had expected to inherit the whole estate, but the old buffer surprised her and his will left everything except a few odds and sods to charity. There were the usual bequests to servants of course; small cash sums depending on their service, and a legacy for soldier friend of his who had fallen on hard times.”

“This Mrs. Silverman was the one who pursued the local constable as being involved?” Holmes asked.

“She did”, the sergeant said bitterly. “Mean old thing. Funny thing was, she did herself no favours in the end. A local reporter called round to talk to her about the case and while he was there she struck one of her own servants. The reporter's brother was in service and he wrote the whole thing up making her look terrible! Karma can work fast at times, I suppose. She talked of suing the paper but nothing came of it; I think she moved soon after although I do not know where to. She had just separated from her husband at the time and all I can say was that he was a lucky fellow!”

I chuckled at that.

“We shall keep you informed of any developments”, Holmes promised. “Thank you for your help, Gregson.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not looking forward to our train journey that day because at the time railway travel in Kent was surely amongst the worst in all England. For some years the South Eastern Railway Company had had the county to itself but a miscalculation on their part had allowed the East Kent (now the London, Chatham & Dover) Railway to build a rival route to Dover as well as a much more direct one to the Thanet towns. The unfortunate consequence had been a building war and trains of such poor quality that the London papers advised against all but essential travel in the county. Thus it was with some trepidation that I alighted from our cab at the Chatham's Victoria Station, even though Holmes insisted as always on our travelling first-class.

Fortunately our journey was accomplished without incident and in relative comfort. Arriving in the town we made our way to Margate's main police-station where we found a Constable Truelove, an athletic-looking blond fellow of about twenty-five years of age. 

“You'd be the second lot of folks we've had showing an interest in the case today, sirs”, he said, clearly surprised. “Never rains but it pours!”

Holmes looked at me in concern.

“May I ask who was the first?” he said.

“Some sharp-eyed woman wearing a fox fur”, he said. “Claimed to be a Mrs. Argent and the late Mrs. Garsdale's sister, but I was sure she only had the one, Mrs. Fulready. Sergeant said she was all right though, so maybe she was a half-sister or some such thing. You never know these days.”

I was immediately suspicious, knowing that argent was another name for silver. Silver, Silverman.

“When was this?” Holmes asked, looking anxious.

“A few hours ago”, the constable said. “Sergeant said he'd take her round there via her sister's but he came back a couple of hours later. Apparently Mrs. Fulready had gone to London for the day so they couldn't get in; I suppose she went to a hotel to wait.”

“We need to see the house at once”, Holmes said urgently.

“I'll get Jamie – Constable Golding – to take you there”, Constable Truelove said. “Sergeant Gregson wired from London about you, so I know you're all right.”

He called through a door to the back and another blond young athlete looking uncannily like the first constable emerged and smiled at us. We waited by the door for the new constable to fetch the keys.

“Watson”, Holmes whispered, “did you bring your gun?”

“Yes”, I whispered back. Ever since the Kuznetsov case I had taken to being armed on all our adventures. “Do you think that I will need it?”

We were interrupted by the returning Constable Golding who had a frown on his face.

“Sergeant must still have the keys”, he said. “We can't....”

“How far away is Mrs. Garsdale's house?” Holmes interrupted. 

“About ten minutes' walk, sir. Why?”

Holmes did not answer but almost ran out of the door. By the time the two of us had caught him up he had already secured a cab and was clambering inside it.

“Hurry!” he called out.

I thought a cab ride for a half-mile journey was something of an indulgence but did not have time to comment for Holmes was busy giving the cab-driver the address. At least it was not London so the traffic allowed us to quickly build up speed.

“Constable”, Holmes said urgently, “when we reach our destination I am going to have to ask you to do something that you will consider highly irregular. It is imperative for both your life and your future career in the police service that you do _exactly_ what I say, no matter how strange it may seem. Do you understand?”

“But sir...?”

_“Do you understand?”_

Holmes could be commanding when the need arose. The young constable buckled at once.

“Yes, sir”, he said resolutely.

“Good man”, Holmes said. “Because we are almost there.”

The cab came to a halt just seconds later and Holmes was first out, the two of us scrambling out after him. He hurried up the garden path and paused to look at the front door which was closed. I was about to ask if he needed our help when he pulled something from his pocket that looked like a sort of screwdriver and did something with the lock. The door opened at once and he hurried inside, the two of us close behind him and my hand on my gun in my jacket pocket.

As with so many houses of the type the door opened into a long hallway and we were not alone for long. Two people emerged almost simultaneously at our noisy entrance, a well-dressed if overly made-up woman in her late forties from a door to the left and a man in his fifties much closer from a door to our right. Constable Truelove gasped.

_“Sarge?”_

“What are you doing here, Jamie?” the man asked. “Who are these gentlemen?”

“We are friends of Mrs. Fulready's”, Holmes said smoothly, “and you, Sergeant Bettenson, are under arrest. Constable, cuff him.”

I have to credit the young constable that, amazingly, he did what Holmes told him without a single protest. The sergeant was shocked, only spinning out of his grip once the handcuffs were secure.

“What's the meaning of this, Jamie?” he demanded angrily. “I'll have you sacked!”

“I rather think that that will be _your_ fate, sir”, Holmes said with a smile. “Mrs. Silverman, I see that your dress looks very expensive. It would be a shame if the good doctor here had to put a bullet into it because you continued your sidling towards the rear exit. Constable?”

The constable strode forward and cuffed the woman, who struggled fruitlessly against him.

“You've got nothing on us!” she hissed.

“On the contrary” Holmes smiled pleasantly. “I have two criminals and I am sure that I also know the whereabouts of the Hutton Diamonds. You can both look forward to an uncomfortable night in the police cells, and when Mrs. Fulready returns this evening we shall see what we shall see.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was later the same day. Holmes had wired Mrs. Fulready as to developments and she had replied to say that she would take the first train that she could from London. She arrived at the house at half-past eight and Holmes insisted on ordering in dinner for the three of us and the two constables (who did not object, I noticed!) before he would explain everything. I noticed that he had moved the set of toby-jugs to the middle of the table around which we were all sat, and thought that if anything our client had understated their sheer awfulness. Sickly green and ugly, I would not have given tuppence for the whole set.

“Now”, Holmes began, “this case all started with the Hutton Diamond robbery and we all know about that. Except that what we know is not the whole story.”

“Eh?” Constable Truelove said.

“It was originally assumed, especially by the Yorkshire press, that the local police constable was involved in allowing the killers to gain access to the property”, Holmes said. “This as we know turned out not to be the case. However the second person who came under suspicion, a local lad of limited intelligence, was also innocent. Unfortunately someone took advantage of that lack of intelligence and made sure that the evidence pointed squarely at him. That someone was Mrs. Silverman.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“The timings”, he said. “Her husband had left her just before the robbery so she was financially desperate. She was the only surviving blood relative of Colonel Hutton so she assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that if he, his wife and his three children all died then she would inherit all. I am not usually vindictive but I would love to have been there when that will was read and she realized that she was getting absolutely nothing!”

I chuckled at that. The others smiled too.

“However”, Holmes went on, “there was still the matter of the famous Hutton Diamonds. It was believed by the press that one of the thieves had hidden them somewhere and that knowledge of their whereabouts went with him to his grave.”

“Did it not?” Mrs. Fulready asked.

“Yes and no.”

We all stared at him.

“The late Mrs. Hutton was no fool”, Holmes smiled. “She suspected some sort of attempt might be made on the jewels one day, although sadly she did not foresee that it would cost her not just her life but those of her entire family. She did what many people do in such circumstances. She had a set of fake diamonds made and made a great show of locking them away securely. The real diamonds she hid somewhere quite ingenious. Only two other people knew of their whereabouts.”

“Two?” I asked.

“Her husband the colonel, and the lady who was her most reliable servant, the late Mrs. Bethania Garsdale.”

“Where are they then?” Constable Truelove asked.

Holmes smiled.

“Let me continue with the story for the moment”, he said. “I do not know how but Mrs. Silverman came to realize something of what had been done. Presumably one of the criminals who took the fake diamonds and realized what they were managed to tell a fellow inmate, who sought out Mrs. Silverman on his own release and offered to 'share the loot' for his knowledge. She therefore knew that the items were in Mrs. Garsdale's possession, though not exactly where.”

“She tracks down her quarry and waits her chance to strike. However on the day in question it chances that her victim sees her coming up the path to the house. She knows that she is doomed so her thought is to leave some sort of clue as to the whereabouts of the diamonds, a clue that will hopefully be uncovered by someone other than her killer.”

“When Mrs. Fulready told me about the collection of toby-jugs based on famous authors, I at once saw the connection. If I was right then one of them should be of the French author Cyrano de Bergerac whose works I have to say I utterly and completely abhor. Upon checking the jugs after the arrests of the two criminals I found that that was indeed the case.”

“What about the sergeant?” Constable Golding put in.

“I believe that Mrs. Garsdale took him to the house then offered to 'split the loot' with him once it was found”, Holmes said.

“But what about the other criminal?” I asked.

“Most probably dead somewhere under Mrs. Silverman's garden”, Holmes said dryly. “I suspected the sergeant because of the distances involved; it was ten minutes' walk from the police station to this house yet we were told that the sergeant was gone for two hours. He was helping her search and returned there after ending his shift that day.”

I shuddered. A criminal policeman! Then Holmes picked up the toby-jug of Cyrano de Bergerac and I finally saw it.

“Of course!” I groaned. “The nose!”

Holmes smiled at me.

“Exactly”, he said. _“That_ was the message that Mrs. Garsdale so cleverly conveyed to us. By leaving her nose unpowdered she was saying that _noses_ were important. So which of the authors portrayed in these hideous pieces of pottery has the largest proboscis?”

He picked up the toby-jug and worked loose the small pad in the bottom, shaking out the contents inside. At first nothing emerged but some poking with his finger extracted first some cotton padding and then a whole slew of brilliant clear gemstones tumbled onto the table and sparkled in the weak December sun. We all stared at them in shock.

“I am sure, constables, that it would only be right and proper for you to inform Mrs. Silverman of our find”, Holmes said with a smile. “You might also contact her home constabulary and ask them to check round her property for any recently dug areas. Who knows what they may dig up among the daisies?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes was as usual proven right and the recently-released Mr. Jack Burnside was found under a newly-dug flower-bed in Mrs. Silverman's garden. She was later hung for her crime while the sergeant spent several years doing hard labour, after which he thankfully quitted the country. Holmes secured a pardon for the poor simpleton who had been wrongly jailed and as his reward asked that a fund be set up so the boy would live his life somewhere safe and happy. The situation regarding the ownership of the diamonds was settled when the administrators of the late colonel's estate agreed to split the proceeds from their sale equally with Mrs. Fulready, who had one of them made into a diamond pendant as a memorial to her late sister,. 

Who unbeknown to everyone had also bequeathed her something else – something quite shocking!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† The Second Anglo-Afghan War. Like most such conflicts it came about because the British were not prepared to tolerate rulers who cosied up to their enemies, in this case a Russia which was seeking an Indian Ocean port. It lasted for two years and the British were eventually successful in their aims, annexing some lands to British India and making the emirate into a British protectorate._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	6. Case 23. The Adventure Of The Odd-Job-Man ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. Holmes seizes the opportunity to take Watson to another cathedral city, this time Salisbury in Wiltshire. The owners of a small hotel just north of the city are threatened with being bought out by a consortium who wish to knock their building down and replace it with a larger one on their new golf course across the road – can Holmes stop the bulldozers?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

“Of course, you never met George.”

I stared at my stepbrother in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. It was bad enough when potential clients started their narratives in the middle of events; when one of the precious few relatives that I could tolerate without wishing to resort to murder did it, that was even worse! To cap it all I was not felling particularly happy just then; after our case on the Thanet coast I had planned to divert to Canterbury on the way back to London so that Watson could see another of his beloved big churches, but unfortunately a telegram from one of his most important clients had somehow caught us up in Margate and he had had to hurry back to the capital. Damnation!

“One of your 'boys”, I asked. He shook his head.

“No, our former odd-job man”, he said. “He went back to Wiltshire to care for his sick mother then stayed on there as an odd-job-man at a local hotel, much the same as he did here. Poor fellow always got so embarrassed when one of our clients mistook him as being 'one of the boys'.”

I shook my head him. He was almost as bad as Watson at times!

“What of him?” I asked.

“He wrote to me asking if I might approach you about a problem he has”, he said. “The owners of his hotel have had an offer to buy them out.”

“A less than generous offer, I suppose”, I said.

“Actually no”, he said. “That was what made George suspicious. His employers, the Loudons, could easily set themselves up elsewhere with the money on offer but they like the New Hart Hotel and do not wish to move.”

“Where in Wiltshire is it?” I asked, thinking of a certain gentleman whom I had met once many years ago but who had left an indelible impression on my young life. 

“Stratford-sub-Castle, just north of Salisbury”, he said. “It is right next to Old Sarum, where they had that rotten borough†. Your friend would love that with his interest in history.”

“True”, I agreed, “and the cathedral would be nearby as well. I shall arrange some time off for him, then you can write to your 'George' and tell him that we shall be visiting his hotel.”

He smiled at that for some reason.

“What?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh nothing”, he said airily. “It is good to see you caring so much for another human being for once. Even if he is 'just a good friend'.”

I had seen politicians manage more sincerity than that! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Fortunately Watson's surgery proved easy to deal with, as I merely told them that a rich client in the county needed his personal services for two weeks and would pay accordingly. Then I went round to see Luke who, to my surprise, was in an even worse state than at our last encounter.

“I thought that you were packing Tiny off to the country?” I asked.

He stared blearily at me.

“I did”, he sighed. “As you know his mother left his father recently – not before time, I might add; I had been monitoring the situation for him – and I helped to find her a place in Newbury.”

“Newbury?” I asked, surprised. “Is that not close to where his father lives?”

“He lives some miles out into the country and she has a sister in the town”, Luke explained. “Tiny was worried about her settling in so I sent him down for a long weekend to see that she was all right. He is off later today.”

“After he had seen to you, no doubt!” I grinned.

“Worse!” he sighed. “He came round earlier with Balin and Balan, and told them that they could do what they liked with me while he was gone!”

“You are a glutton for punishment”, I said reprovingly.

“I am”, he admitted. “They will be back from church soon – which is appropriate as I have not got a prayer!”

He really was terrible!

“I wondered if you could find out something for me”, I said. “It concerns a company called Cherry Tree Golfing. They are trying to buy out a hotel called the New Hart down in Wiltshire; Campbell knows someone there.”

“Sure”, he said. “Once I get back to the office. _And can sit down!”_

As I said, a glutton for punishment. Especially as I passed the twins on my way out, and they looked all too eager to get back to ‘work’.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Watson was of course delighted to come down to Wiltshire for me, especially when I pointed out that we would be next to Old Sarum and within a short cab ride of the cathedral. Hence the following day we adjourned to Waterloo Station and a London & South Western train to the cathedral city.

“It seems a bit strange, wanting to build a golf-course next to somewhere as historic as Old Sarum”, he said as we sped westwards. 

“I suppose that not everyone has your regard for history”, I said. “We shall have to see what the place is like, and I have had Luke start looking into them.”

He sniggered at that for some reason.

“What?” I asked.

“I had to treat Balin for a sprain on Thursday”, he said, “and Balan told me that they were 'booked in' for your cousin this whole weekend. Also that they were really looking forward to ‘sticking it to the government for once’!”

I just sighed. I was surrounded by terrible people!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The New Hart Hotel was pleasantly situated by the River Avon a little way north of the city, and with a clear view across to Old Sarum which, in my opinion, was an uninteresting flat-topped hill with some old ruins on it. I did not say that to Watson of course.

Mr. Richard Loudon and his wife Joanna were the proprietors of the hotel, a middle-aged and pleasant couple whose establishment was I noted surprisingly full for mid-January. I wondered that they did not try to expand themselves but they were able to explain that.

“You cannot see it but the hotel is on a slight rise here”, Mr. Loudon said, “with marshes either side of it and the river behind. We could apply to have the marshes drained but it would be horrendously expensive.”

“I wonder at why this company wishes to buy you out”, I said. “If that is the case then surely they cannot build much on this side of the road?”

“They are planning a new hotel for both our trade and all their golfers”, Mrs. Loudon explained. “Or so they said; we presumed that they did not want the competition, although from the plans that we have seen their new place will be at least three times the size of ours. They plan to turn this place into normal cottages.”

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , I thought. The company's hotel might well have forced this place out of business and so avoided any need to buy them out. Unless...

“Have you had any guests from the company staying here at all?” I asked.

“No”, Mr. Loudon said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I rather think that they soon will”, I said. “I suspect that there is more to this company than meets the eye, and hopefully my investigations in London will be able to uncover just what. I noticed that there is a tavern a little way down the road to the city; do you know if they have received an offer?”

“They have not”, Mr. Loudon said, “and Joss was disappointed at that. But then unlike here the ground by his place is dry and he could easily expand the Red Lion northwards in the direction of the new course. The nineteenth hole, as they say.”

“This is most interesting”, I said. “If I may, I would like to look at your guest-lists from about a month before you received the company's offer.”

“I shall fetch them for you, sir”, Mrs. Loudon said, looking at me in a way that had Watson rolling his eyes for some reason, and Mr. Loudon very pointedly looking out of the window. It was a good thing that I did not smirk at times like this, whatever anyone said.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had a second and arguably less noble motive for my interests in the lists, and that was because history has always pretty much bored me. I knew enough of my character to know that Watson would see this and it might well mar his enjoyment of his big old churches and stone-covered hill-tops, so I suggested that as I had some idea as to what I was looking for, he should go off exploring while I stayed behind. My reward was that he looked truly happy when he came back, which would have been enough in itself – except that I found two more things. Luke sent me a telegram confirming who was behind Cherry Tree Golfing, and although there were no names that I recognized in the lists, there _was_ an address.

I went to find Mr. George Utley, the odd-job-man. He was a fellow of about fifty years of age, solid and dark-haired, and his appearance suggested that he was maybe not quite all there. However he was friendly enough although my first question evidently surprised him.

“I believe that you have a half-sister?”

“Yes sir”, he said. “Pansy, from Dad's remarriage after Mum's divorce. A right tartar; she was one reason I wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to the smoke.”

“I am sorry to have to ask you a personal question”, I said, “but did either your late father or mother leave you anything of value?”

He looked understandably surprised at that but answered readily enough.

“Dad's lawyer came down with something when he died”, he said. “Typical of him, really; a set of gold-plated miniature tools. Useless things, but they look good in their box.”

“Where do you keep them?” I asked.

“Normally in my room here, sir”, he said. “We had a jeweller and his wife down from London a time back and he took an interest in them; he said he could give me a fair price for them. Don't know why but he made me uneasy, so I had Mr. Loudon put them in his safe until he was gone.”

“I think that you were most wise in so doing”, I said. “Thank you, George.”

I tipped him and went on my way.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I sent a telegram to Luke thanking him and recommending a certain course of action, which I guessed would yield results sooner rather than later. The horrible sort of relative sent back that he would do as I asked once he could stand again, as Tiny had been very, _very_ glad to see him after his trip west, and he would be ‘out of commission’ for several days. Honestly!

Fortunately he must have been able to do something as some four days later a telegram arrived at the hotel requesting a room for two nights for a 'Mr. Smith'. I told Watson what I expected to happen and, as I had known he would be, he was immediately up for it.

“Will I need my gun?” he asked.

“Better safe than sorry”, I said. “This gentleman is not known to be armed, but the person who is employing him is playing for high stakes. We do not want to risk anyone getting hurt.”

That was also why I arranged that just as this 'Mr. Smith' was checking in, George was being told by Mr. Loudon to enjoy his visit to his friend down in Portsmouth. The guest was good; there was not even a flicker of reaction.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following morning I had a little explaining to do to Mr. and Mrs. Loudon, primarily as to I had invited three local constables into their hotel to arrest one of their guests for attempted theft.

“I shall start with what you may or may not consider bad news”, I said. “Cherry Tree Golfing does not exist.”

“What?” Mr. Loudon exclaimed.

“This all goes back to your odd-job-man of all people”, I said. “Mr. Utley was the issue of his father's first marriage, which ended in a divorce. His second marriage then resulted in the birth of one Miss Pansy Utley. Mrs. Maitlis as she became was not just an unpleasant woman but a spendthrift, particularly as her husband was a jeweller of some renown and she expected to be very rich when he passed; she was well over a decade his junior and he was not in good health. So he did pass – but there was hardly any money in his estate. She and her daughter faced ruin.”

“Her father had very clearly done something with his money, but what? The obvious answer seemed to be that he had passed it in some way to his son George. A few days ago I took those gold-plated tools of his into a shop in Salisbury and they confirmed what I had suspected. They were indeed gold-plated – but they were also hollow, and inside were a number of diamonds and other precious stones.”

Everyone gasped at that.

“Mrs. Maitlis obtained the services of her own jeweller”, I said, “then disguised herself and came here as that gentleman's wife. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – people find it surprisingly difficult to tell lies. Although she wrote her fake name in, she used her _real_ address which I already knew from my inquiries. Her jeweller approached her brother and was allowed to examine the tools, establishing that they were likely hollow so therefore hiding something inside, but fortunately George became suspicious and placed the tools in the hotel safe. The fact that you received that generous offer for the hotel soon after was not a coincidence; the prospective owners would have insisted on a full day examining the place and would have used that to break into the safe if needed. By letting Mrs. Maitlis know that I was on the case I caused her to send down a hired thief to try to seize the jewels, which is why you had someone arrested in your hotel.”

“Thank you so much, Mr., Holmes”, Mrs, Loudon smiled, giving me another look that had her husband looking vexed for some strange reason. “We shall never be able to repay you!”

“You might try extra bacon at breakfast!” said something who.... actually had a good point.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† A parliamentary constituency with few or, in this case, no voters living there. The local landowner would register some of their tenants as owning property and then tell them how to vote – OR ELSE! It was abolished along with all other such seats in the 1832 Great Reform Act; curiously its replacement Salisbury which was also a dual-member seat survived until after this story is set, losing one of its seats under the Redistribution of the Seats Act (1885) before being replaced by a county division in 1918 that was also called Salisbury. As of 2020 it included outlying areas as far afield as Downton, Alderbury, Amesbury and Wilton._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	7. Interlude: Safe Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. The bigger they are....

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

My cousin Campbell calls it Safe Surrender, something that he himself does to 'de-stress' when the pressure of work gets too much and he has Balin and Balan do what they want with him. Apparently we are in good company; he showed me a list of those in high positions in our capital who do it with his 'boys' on a regular basis. Little wonder that he is more feared that many crime lords; if that list was ever made public then the so-called great and the good would be decimated!

The process involved signing over one's body to the pleasure and whims of one or more molly-men who, subject to the client reserving the right to veto anything too extreme, could do whatever they wanted with you. Campbell had explained that people in stressful positions like him and me spent all day at work under strain, and that there were few things more relaxing that completely letting go and having someone else in charge for once. It seemed particularly appropriate for me because, while I knew that many of his clients had their preferred 'boys', I restricted myself to just three; my wonderful Tiny and of course Balin and Balan, my first and memorable sexual encounter. And after a particularly difficult work matter that had lasted for the best part of a month I had been all too ready to let rip so Tiny, grateful for my help with a recent family problem of his, had suggested having the twins round – as well as him!

That had been a weekend to remember, or at least it would have been had my brain still been functioning! The twins set up the spare double bed in my main room, then the whole weekend I had one or the other of the three horny bastards either fucking me or sucking me off. Worse, in the times that I was conscious the other two were just relaxing around the room stark naked or worse, Tiny would be taking one or other of the twins 'for practice'. No man should be expected to have to cope with forty-eight hours of non-stop sex!

I was doing it all again as soon as it could be arranged! Or as soon as I could hold a pen with which to write to Campbell and ask! Which reminded me; I needed a better padded chair for work!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	8. Case 24: The Adventure Of The Fountain-Pen ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. One of the running jokes about Holmes in the newspapers was that he would solve everything down to the recovery of a lost fountain-pen. Here he did just that – much to the shock of Watson's lawyer brother.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I stared incredulously at the card that Susan, the maid, had just brought to our rooms.

_”Stevie?”_

Holmes squinted at me from across the table. In my shock I had forgotten that he was only on his third cup of coffee and might not be fully coherent yet. As in the Sahara Desert might not be flooded yet.

_“What?!”_

It was almost a snarl, surprising given that his voice usually returned to its normal level after breakfast. But then he had had to go round to see his family the evening before and had inevitably returned in a bad mood, so perhaps that was why. Even more annoyingly and despite his looking like death barely warmed over, Susan was still gazing at him like he was the last chocolate drop in the bag!

_How did he do that?_

“It is my brother”, I said, not scowling at all. “But what is he doing down here? He should be still on his course up in Edinburgh.”

Holmes downed a steaming hot cup of coffee then sighed, looking at the empty cup as if he was seriously considering a marriage proposal. That, Susan, and his having snaffled half my bacon rashers meant that it was just another normal Thursday morning. Worse luck!

“We had better have him here and find out”, he said, looking askance at me for some reason. “Susan, please send Mr. Watson straight up.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At twenty-two the giraffe was, annoyingly, as tall as ever, although at least he had not gained any more height on me which was a relief. Also the frankly ridiculous attempt at a moustache from our last meeting had met its Maker, even if he still wore his hair ridiculously long. But then Princess Stephanie had always been far too fond of her auburn tresses.

“I am sorry to drop by unannounced like this, John”, he said, almost inevitably patting his long locks (I really had to buy him that hair-brush for his next birthday). “But the company felt that the matter was so urgent they wished for me to see you in person, rather than risk a telegram or a letter.”

Like me, Stevie's course, which he had attained a place on thanks to Holmes’s father’s assistance after our mother’s passing, was a mixture of class-based learning plus a secondment to a firm of Edinburgh lawyers. He had impressed them sufficiently that they had already pledged to take him on as a junior lawyer when he had graduated, and he had not crowed about that at all when he had told me. Four times!

“What matter?” Holmes asked, looking hard at me for some reason. 

Stevie sighed (and invariably patted his hair again).

“We have been engaged by a Mr. and Mrs. John McDougall as regards a disputed inheritance.”

I looked at him curiously. That did not seem particularly important. He caught my expression and smiled.

“It is their cousin whose inheritance they wish to secure who is the problem, as such”, he said. “One Miss Anne Brown – _the aunt of a Mr. John Brown!”_

 _Now_ I could see the problem. In one of those frequent examples of being careful what one wished for, many in society and in particular in the newspapers had come to criticize our Queen for her almost complete withdrawal from society and her duties after the death of her husband Prince Albert back in 'Sixty-One. A period of mourning was all very well but hers had lasted for far too long, in the eyes of most people, and even some politicians had said how much they wished she could be encouraged back to her old self.

They had gotten their wish, albeit in a way that they had not liked one little bit. Her Majesty had been coaxed out of her self-imposed retirement by one of her servants, a blunt Scottish ghillie called John Brown whose closeness to her had of course inspired much comment. Any scandal surrounding a relative of his would be front page news; the as always overly bold cartoonists were often depicting 'Mrs. Brown and her husband'. I doubted the veracity of all these rumours – I had seen pictures of the ghillie and he was absolutely nothing like the late Prince Albert, let alone the dear Queen's own moral rectitude – but as so often happens in history, it is not always the truth that counts but people's perceptions, even if those were coloured by the sort of scandal-sheets which of course I never even glanced at.

“What is the problem, exactly?” Holmes asked, coughing for some reason. 

My brother took a deep breath before beginning.

“Miss Brown was nearly eighty when she died”, he said, “and surprisingly well-off for someone of her station in society. Although she had never married, she had when young been wooed by a young laird. He died childless some twenty years back and left his entire estate to her, comprising a number of investments and a large house on the eastern outskirts of Glasgow which she wisely sold – the city was about to expand around it – and purchased herself a medium-sized property in a small village called St. Monans in eastern Fifeshire, where she lived in some comfort.”

“And I would wager with frequent visits from her nearest relatives”, I smiled.

My brother shook his head at my cynicism and I looked pointedly at him.

“All right”, he admitted, “several of them did try to get on her good side. However Jack – her companion – said that she had a way of seeing through sycophancy.”

“She had a _male_ companion?” I asked, surprised. Such things were common among gentlemen but I had never heard of a lady with one.

“She was not easy to get on with, to put it mildly”, Stevie admitted, “but she took to Jack – Mr. Tranter – when he came to her house one day. He was only fifteen at the time, six or seven years back. He had been playing football with his brothers in the fields nearby and the ball had gone into her garden. I think after all those relatives trying to butter her up she came to value someone who would tell her to her face when she was being, in his words, 'a right old bossy-boots!'”

“An admirable character trait, to admit failings like that”, I said, definitely not thinking of a certain someone Before Coffee of a morning.

 _“Please_ go on”, Holmes said, shooting me a look that was downright annoying.

“Jack said that the only of her relatives she did take to was her great-nephew Mr. Alexander MacDougall, who is now our company’s client”, Stevie said. “She did not think much of his wife, I suspect because they were of a similar temperament. Mr. MacDougall named his second daughter after his great-aunt which I think helped matters, and it was generally assumed that after the usual bequests to servants and charities he would inherit the bulk of the estate.”

“What about this Jack fellow?” I asked. “Was he to get anything?”

Stevie frowned for some reason. 

“She had drawn up a will some five years back”, he said, “and which was signed and witnessed properly. She was with a group of lawyers in nearby St. Andrew’s then but I understand that the senior partner resigned and she did not feel much confidence in his replacement, so came to us. Her judgement proved most wise in this case; the new head of the company decamped to France with much of his clients’ funds, although thankfully he was caught and the moneys all returned.”

“To answer your question John, under this first will Mr. Tranter received an amount that was fitting for his work; a little more than, perhaps. But matters changed about three months ago when another great-nephew – from the other side of her family so no close relation to Mr. MacDougall – came out of the woodwork. Lieutenant Harold Marks-Hall was discharged from the Army with an injury and seemed to have made a favourable impression on his great-aunt.”

Holmes looked at him sharply.

 _”Seemed_ to have made?” he queried.

“You will see why I chose those words soon enough”, Stevie said. “Two weeks ago it was clear that Miss Brown was fading, so when I received a request to visit her at her house I went immediately. She told me that she wished to rewrite her will and leave the bulk of the money to her military great-nephew.”

Holmes looked hard at him again. My brother nodded.

“I admit that my preference is against the newcomer, who I do not trust at all”, he said. “The MacDougalls are decent enough, if a little prideful, while there is something about the lieutenant that does not quite ring true. I told Miss Brown that as her lawyer I was obliged to tell her that writing the MacDougalls out of her will completely would leave it open to challenge, and that such a challenge might in my opinion be successful. Also even if it were not, it would considerably drain the estate in legal fees. She took my point – as I said, despite her age she much preferred people to speak plainly – so it was decided that after the aforementioned other bequests some three-quarters of the estate would go to the lieutenant and one-quarter to the MacDougalls. In fairness I should add that they are quite well-off and the lieutenant is not, although that is because the latter's own fecklessness more than any lack of funds.”

“What was the opinion of her companion on this change?” Holmes asked.

Steve looked surprised at that question, as was I.

“He said that his mistress was free to leave her moneys to whomsoever she wished”, he said. “He does not think much of Mrs. MacDougall in particular, but I know that he does not like the lieutenant.”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment.

“This is most fascinating”, he said at last. “What went wrong with the new will, pray?”

My brother baulked at that.

“How did you know that?” he demanded.

“It seemed likely”, Holmes smiled. “Do continue.”

“I promised to return as soon as I could with the new will”, my brother said, looking suspiciously at Holmes. “Usually our clients come to the office and we are able to use staff members as witnesses but as I said Miss Brown was in too weak a state for that. When I returned I could see that she was having second thoughts about the change, and Jack suggested that we might set things up so that she could sign and make it legal at her own time.”

I noted that it had been the _companion_ who had suggested that. Interesting.

“I had of course brought a copy of the new will”, Stevie went on, “the original for her to sign and the copy for safe-keeping at the office. We agreed that when – or if – she chose to sign them, Jack would bring my copy round to me in person immediately, rather than risk trusting it to the general post. Under Scots law witnesses do not have to be present at the actual signing provided they are there when the seal is broken, they read through what they are putting their names to, and that they sign within seven days.”

“So legally speaking, this new could only come into force once the lady put her signature on it?” Holmes asked. 

My brother nodded and took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket.

“Miss Brown was as I said very much in two minds about the whole thing”, he said. “She died last week and it seemed that she had changed her mind back – until Jack delivered the new will to me within hours of her death. Or so I thought.”

“You thought?” I asked, puzzled. “How could you be unsure if he had or not?”

“Because when I opened the will that she had sent me – _it was unsigned!”_

I stared at him in surprise. Why had his client sent the will unsigned?

“Did the copies get switched?” I wondered. My brother shook his head.

“I immediately repaired to the house and checked the copy that I had left her”, he said. “That too was unsigned. I cannot see why she sent an unsigned will to me.”

“Perhaps she changed her mind yet again?” I suggested. He shook his head.

“She was most punctilious about such things”, he said firmly. “There would have been an accompanying letter or note, however short. But I have not yet come to the strangest part of all.”

“Which is?” Holmes asked.

“One of the servants told me that he had _seen_ her sign the will with her special fountain-pen!”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Miss Brown had a favourite fountain-pen”, he explained, “which she always used and no other. She employed a distinctive blue-violet ink in it; all her legal documents had it. She was quite possessive over the thing.”

“So why did she send you an unsigned will?” I asked, my head spinning. “This makes no sense at all.”

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“When did the fountain-pen disappear?” he asked.

He was going to give my brother a bad turn if he kept this up. Stevie was aghast.

“You could not possibly know that!” he protested. “She had left it to Jack in her will, but when he went to get it it was gone from the desk drawer where she always kept it.”

Holmes chuckled.

“This was an excellently planned crime”, he said. “I only hope that the criminal mastermind does not carry on in this way as he would doubtless give the Edinburghshire Police a hard time.”

“You know who did it?” Stevie demanded. “Even how it was done?”

“Of course.”

Despite my own confusion it was pleasurable to see someone else suffer at my clever friend's omniscience as well.

“How?” Stevie demanded.

“That depends”, Holmes said. “But if you come back tomorrow I should be able to tell you.”

Predictably Stevie immediately tried his famous kicked puppy look, the one which always had me agreeing to his requests and which had landed me rather than him the deserved maternal clip round the ear far too many times when we were growing up. I sighed; even Holmes was bound to fold under that sort of.....

“Do you have something in your eye?” my friend asked politely.

I was still laughing when my brother left some time later.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Why could you not tell Stevie the solution yesterday?” I asked as we waited for my brother's return some twenty-four hours later.

“I wished to talk with my brother Carl, as he in the Army”, he said. “He knew quite a lot about the lieutenant and was able to tell me of his true character. Which will be important in securing justice here.”

I looked sharply at him.

“Justice or the law?” I asked.

“Always justice”, he smiled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I have to tell you”, Holmes began, “that the will Miss Brown sent to you did indeed contain her last wishes. The main beneficiary is therefore Lieutenant Marks-Hall who my brother Carl tells me is spoken of in Army circles with regret, namely that he did not get shot in his time with them. Although several of his former colleagues have said that they would willingly volunteer to remedy that – _free of charge!”_

“The lieutenant has threatened to take legal action if or when we enforce the original will not including him”, my brother said. “He claims that the will was signed and must have been tampered with by the company, even though I had the two would-be witnesses with me when I opened it. But Miss Brown did not sign it.”

“I am afraid that you yourself, Mr. Watson, are about to discover the difference between justice and the law”, Holmes said. “It is difficult although not impossible to prove that the will was signed – but _you_ will have to decide if that is what you wish to try to do.”

Stevie stared at him in confusion. I knew how he felt.

“Miss Brown's companion Mr. Tranter was very clever”, Holmes said. “He could see that the lieutenant might well win his mistress round to rewriting her will, as indeed he did. So he took measures. When his mistress signed the will, he told her that there was no need to sign the copy as well since that was just for her records,. He then simply exchanged the signed will with the unsigned copy, so that the will that you received is indeed unsigned even if it does reflect her last wishes. I would wager that the signed version has likely been copied by Mr. Tranter likely acting in co-operation with the MacDougalls, but without the signature; the only way that you might be able to prove it is if you can find the company whose services they employed. A lawyer might well remember the oddity of being asked to make a copy that would normally have been done by the lady's own lawyers, although I am sure that they concocted some explanation as to why it was necessary.”

“But why did someone steal the fountain-pen, then?” Stevie asked.

“No-one did”, Holmes said. “It was merely misdirection, to focus attention on the pen rather than the document. The companion simply removed it from the draw himself.”

I saw his point to my brother. Stevie was clearly torn here.

“Just how bad is the lieutenant?” he asked quietly.

“He has left a slew of debts behind him”, Holmes said, “and at least two – possibly as many as five – illegitimate children.”

I could see that my brother was struggling to take this all in. He was back to patting his auburn tresses again and someone really could cut with the disapproving looks. He had brothers too!

“It would be difficult indeed to go round every firm of lawyers in Edinburgh”, Steve said at last. “They may even have gone further afield.”

“That is likely”, Holmes said. “But perhaps you might have a word with the perpetrators. I doubt that they will continue any further along the path of crime – they have what they wanted – but one never knows.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Sadly one did know with Lieutenant Marks-Hall who contested the will and lost, then chanced his arm once too often the following year and was fatally shot clambering out of a woman's bedchamber by her unexpectedly returned husband. Stevie did speak to the companion Mr. Tranter and to the MacDougalls, but they did not come to his attention any time thereafter so I presume that having secured their ‘prize’, they kept to the straight and narrow.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	9. Case 25: The Adventure Of Towton Field ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. On March the twenty-ninth, Anno Domini fourteen hundred and sixty-one, some twenty-eight thousand men were killed in the bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil. As another anniversary draws near it seems that yet more dark deeds from that troubled time are being uncovered – or are they?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

My cousin Luke, the one decent member of my family who works for Her Majesty's Government (apart that is from his tendency to overshare certain details of his private life!), says that one of the reasons I do so well as a detective is that I have no imagination whatsoever. That may or may not be true, but as Watson and I stood there on this cold Yorkshire road in the swirling March fog I could not help but shiver. For this was Towton Field, scene of the bloodiest ever battle in the Wars of the Roses as the Cousins' Wars† are now more commonly called.

We were in the North in response to a request from one Mr. Michael Sanderson, an American gentleman who had decided to come to Yorkshire and settle in Saxton Hall¶, the home of his ancestors, one of whom had reputedly been involved in this terrible battle. He had married a cousin of one of Watson's more garrulous patients (a competition for which there were far too many entrants!) which was how he had come to hear of me.

“Was it the worst battle ever?” I had asked Watson. “You are the history expert.”

He preened at that. I always made of point of playing up to his vanity when I could; I knew that he had a low opinion of his abilities when it came to our cases and as a friend I wished him to be happy. I was fortunate that I myself had no such insecurities, despite what certain annoying and otherwise almost tolerable relatives said.

“Quite likely”, he had said. “There were 52,000 on the Lancastrian side and 48,000 on the Yorkist, although a quarter of each of those were what they now call logistics. You know; food, drink, squires, weapon suppliers. After six years of on-off war the two sides were both making a huge effort for a final showdown. They have dug up some bodies and so far they think the average age of the men there was about twenty. I am afraid that some of them were barely in their teens, if that.”

“Was it the final showdown?” I had asked.

“Not really”, he had said. “The old story about winning the war but losing the peace; it brought a lull but there was more fighting just three years on. Matters were not finally resolved until Bosworth some twenty-four years later when the Tudors came to the throne. And even then there was the odd revolt; there was another major battle two years later at Stoke.”

Which was why we were now in the middle of nowhere, having taken two trains to Sherburn-in-Elmet Station then a carriage ride out to Saxton, on the southern edge of the battlefield. Our client had recently purchased nearby Saxton Hall but we had diverted via the battlefield so that Watson could do his history thing. It was strange to imagine that over four centuries back, close on thirty thousand men had died here in a single day.

I may have had no imagination but the image of all those dying men made me shudder. Mankind had achieved a lot in its time but when it got things wrong, it got them really wrong.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Sanderson had I knew married an Englishwoman which was one reason for his return to England. He was in his mid-forties and one of those large gentlemen who always look apologetic at taking up so much room, a little like Watson's lawyer brother but broad rather than tall, although not fat. I thought at first that he might have some sort of alcohol problem but Watson, who knew these things, later told me that he was taking medication for a condition that rendered him ruddy-skinned.

Mrs. Alice Sanderson on the other hand – on dear! Smaller and about a decade her husband's junior, I knew from the moment we met her that she was going to be trouble, especially when I heard Watson shuffling his feet as she gave me a look that an unkind person might have described as a simper. With her husband in the room at the time!

Mr. Sanderson, who was it turned out quite rich, was descended from the original owners of this place although they had lost control of it under Henry Tudor and it had changed hands several times since, as well as being half-destroyed in the campaign that had led to the Battle of Marston Moor in 1644 (Watson was so useful to have around at times like this, and he always enjoyed it when I told him so). 

“You see Mr. Holmes”, our host said, “although I am a descendant of old Thomas Bledsoe I am still 'the Yank' to people round here. I know that a lot of them are suspicious about my ancestors even though the Bledsoes held this place from the Conquest to after Bosworth, so for over four hundred years.”

“Has there been any particular trouble?” I asked.

“I allowed the local archaeological group into the grounds last month”, he said, “after they said they only wanted to dig around Castle Hill Wood. That is on the edge of my lands and out of sight of the house, so I did not think there would be any problems. But they have been finding dead bodies along the road from here to Towton, and now they wish to dig quite close to the house.”

I thought wryly that one dead body was usually sufficient for a case. Here we had getting on for thirty thousand of the things!

“You did not wish them to?” I asked, ignoring his wife who presumably had something in her eye again from the way in which she was looking at me. And in her throat from the way in which she kept sighing. 

Watson coughed for some reason. 

“It sounds rum to me”, he said. “I have gotten into the battle in a big way you see, and I know the fighting started by the wood but then pretty much stayed put until the final rout. Besides I do not like the head of the society, a Mr. Marr.”

“What is wrong with him?” I asked.

“He is one of those snakes who is all pleasant to your face but then speaks ill of you behind your back”, our host said. “I cannot stand that sort of thing! But because of my interest in history I suppose that I shall just have to bite the bullet and let them dig where they want.”

I thought for a moment then smiled.

“Your ancestor Mr. Bledsoe”, I said. “Which side of the contention was he on?”

“A Lancastrian like most round here”, Mr. Sanderson said. “That was something I got wrong before I got into it; they might talk about Lancaster and York these days but most of Yorkshire was solidly Lancastrian. Only York and the East Riding were for the White Rose. That was why there was a battle; the Yorkist King Edward was on enemy territory here. The irony was that having got through all those decades of war, he made an enemy of someone at court and the king pretty much took everything that he had, but then that was the way things were back then.”

I could see one avenue of approach to this, but I would need time. Fortunately I expected to have at least some of that commodity.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Watson and I walked into Saxton village the following day and I posted a letter to my cousin Luke. I would have sent a telegram but something about the woman in the post-office, and not just that she too seemed to be suffering from the same eye affliction as Mrs. Sanderson when she looked at me, told me that the contents of any telegram would be around the village in minutes. Likely the whole of the White Rose county before the day was out!

“You do not think the matter urgent?” Watson asked as we walked back past the Hall and headed to the battlefield.

“I do not expect anything to happen for a few days”, I said. “Then the archaeologists will make a shocking discovery near to the Hall.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“How can you know that?” he demanded.

“Because.”

And there was the pout!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was now four days until the anniversary of the slaughter and Towton Field had not improved since our last visit. Well, maybe the fog was a little thinner. It was still depressing, though.

“Was our host right about the slaughter not taking place in Saxton?” I asked.

“Yes”, Watson said. “Do you see that ridge in the distance?”

I stared into the slowly lifting fog. The road, such as it was, breasted a long east to west ridge and a second parallel ridge was just observable in the dim distance, probably about six to eight hundred yards away. There was a small river running by to the west and the dip on that side was almost a gully, while to the east it was barely noticeable.

“Tell me what happened in the battle”, I said. “It may be important to the case.”

It was likely not, but as I said it did my friend good to feel valued.

“The Lancastrians pitched camp in Tadcaster a few miles to the north and lined up on the far ridge”, he said. “It was an excellent position in almost every way; the steep bank down to the river on their right and in those days there was a marsh on their left surrounding the River Trent.”

 _“Almost_ every way?” I asked.

“The only danger was that the Yorkists might send some men across the river further upstream, then come up behind their enemy”, he explained. “That would have caused complete confusion, especially as each side could only fit about ten thousand in their front lines so the rest had to wait their turn some way behind. That was what happened at the initial encounter between some men from each side at Ferrybridge to the south; the Lancastrian force sent to delay the Yorkist one got caught out and destroyed. Hence the Lancastrian commander here, the Duke of Somerset‡, decided to destroy the bridge at Towton – the old one north-west of the village, not the one on the new trunk road that goes due north. He also very cleverly placed an ambush in Castle Hill Wood just behind the hill there, where our host said the archaeologists had been digging.”

I looked to where he was pointing and could just see the tops of some trees behind a hill close to the small river. That was I had to admit an excellent place to have laid an ambush; the men there could not be seen from the battle-lines and would be charging downhill into an otherwise occupied and doubtless surprised enemy.

“A part of the Yorkist army had not yet arrived”, he went on, “but sometime between ten and eleven o' clock they had a sudden opportunity when the wind changed to a strong southerly. They loosed arrow fire into the enemy ranks and the Duke forgot that his men were firing _into_ the wind, so all their arrows fell short. The carnage on his own side – the snow meant that he could not even see the enemy – was such that he had to order an advance, yielding his strong position.”

I shuddered as I pictured the scene, ten thousand men advancing towards where we were now standing, knowing that likely most of them would soon be dead.

“The Yorkists were able to pick up many of the Lancastrian arrows and fire them back as well as their own”, he went on. “But when the two sides clashes and with the ambush sprung, the Lancastrians had the advantage of the numbers and pushed the Yorkists back on this side of the battlefield. King Edward himself had to come over to steady the line.”

“Would they have been pushed back to Saxton village and the Hall?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Too far”, he said, “although the ambush from the wood took them a way towards it. Another thing was that medieval commanders were superstitious; they always favoured a stronger right flank and a weaker left one, so most battles had some sort of counter-clockwise movement of the lines. The slaughter lasted for hours – it is said that at one point they had to agree a halt so they could remove the wall of dead bodies that had built up between them. Then some time in the afternoon one of the Lancastrian commanders on their left fell, and with the late arriving troops the Yorkists were able to break through when a gap appeared between the enemy line and the marshland. The Lancastrian left collapsed and they fled where they could.”

I looked again at the geography of the place. This empty field chilled me to the core.

“So they could only have fled north”, I said, frowning. “Away from Saxton.”

“It was a massacre!” he shuddered. “Remember that the Duke had broken the bridge at Towton earlier? That was their only real line of escape; many of those that tried to ford the river were drowned as it was in spring spate. Another horrible legend; it was said that so many tried the bridge that a crossing made of dead bodies built up and some escaped over that.”

“Yet you said that this massacre was not decisive?” I asked incredulously. He shook his head.

“King Edward was unwise afterwards”, he said, “forgiving some who should not have been forgiven – including Somerset, who almost immediately went and betrayed him! – and also angering his chief supporter Warwick the Kingmaker. That led as I said to a further bout of conflict just three years on, more trouble four years after that when King Edward briefly lost the throne, then a decade or so of peace before the Bosworth campaign.”

 _So no real link to Saxton_ , I thought. I hoped that Luke would prove my suspicions correct.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sure enough I received a reply to my letter three days later, the day before the anniversary. I would have said how grateful I was to Luke for replying so quickly, but he had to go and boast that Tiny was coming round for a ‘long and hard weekend of working’. I made a mental note to stop at a telegraph-office on the way home and arrange some supplies for the behemoth that would make my cousin’s weekend even longer and harder – and hopefully fatal!

Of course, I could never have wishedwish for such a thing. Tiny’s Sad Face upon my cousin’s demise would have been beyond even my endurance!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was the following day, and as I had expected there had been a development over which Mr. Sanderson was not happy. The archaeologist Mr. Andrew Marr, a balding fellow in his fifties with a supercilious expression, was clearly enjoying his Grand Moment.

“There can be no doubt about it”, he said firmly. “Ten to twelve men from the remains we found, some only boys, and over half of them were very clearly done to death here in the Hall grounds. By _your_ ancestor, Mr. Sanderson!”

I thought wryly that even if this were true one could hardly blame a fellow for his family (yes, I _was_ thinking close to home!). I stepped forward, deciding to end this charade before it could be taken any further.

“I have some questions, Mr. Marr”, I said. “You are the historical expert, after all.”

The pompous fellow actually puffed himself up at that.

“Indeed I am”, he said proudly.

“First”, I said with a smile, “I do hope that you are going to pay Mr. Posner for his valuable assistance.”

Mr. Sanderson looked at me in surprise, but Mr. Marr went very white.

“What do you mean?” our host asked.

“At this rogue’s request Mr. Posner transported up to a dozen sets of remains from the archaeological society's headquarters yesterday, so that his fellow diggers could 'find' them today”, I said. “I have taken advice however, and can tell you that if a _proper_ archaeologist examines these remains, they will find that the earth associated with them cannot have come from the grounds here. The earth under the battle site contains a greater concentration of chalk for one thing.”

Watson looked at me, clearly impressed. As did Mrs. Sanderson, although apparently she was at that moment the victim of a rogue eyelash. Again.

“What are you saying?” Mr. Marr blustered.

“You planted those remains here for two reasons”, I said. “The lesser reason, perhaps surprisingly, is that you wished for fame in your own world which this discovery would have given you.”

“The lesser reason?”, Mr. Sanderson demanded, looking askance at the archaeologist. “What was his main one, for heaven's sake?”

I smiled knowingly.

“My cousin was able to confirm something for me down in London”, I said. “Mr. Sanderson, your ancestor Mr. Bledsoe was indeed a committed Lancastrian, but he very adroitly sent two of sons to fight one for each side so he could ‘be on the winning side’ whatever happened. He was as a result able to gain the upper hand in a legal dispute that had been going on for nearly a century with a rival family in the village, the Aumerles. Mr. Philip Aumerle was ruined and his family remained poor thereafter.”

Mr. Sanderson just looked confused, although I noted that Mr Marr was definitely eyeing up the door and an escape. Fortunately I had told Watson beforehand to position himself across it, and there was no way that the little runt was getting past him.

“The Aumerle name died out”, I said, “but the bloodline did not. Nor did the sense of injustice that their descendants felt against the family who had got the better of them – a sense of injustice that led one of those descendants to try to defame Mr. Bledsoe as having committed a war crime by murdering people after the battle was over. That person was _you_ , Mr. Marr!”

The archaeologist made a sudden bolt for the door anyway but simply bounced off the much more solid Watson. The villain was escorted to the chair to sit and wait until we had decided what to do about him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Since no real crime had been committed it was hard to prove anything against Mr. Marr, although his career as an archaeologist was finished (or as some horrible medical personage later remarked, 'dead and buried'; I was strongly tempted to leave him in the West Riding for that!). Mr. Sanderson was most grateful for our help and I was more than glad to get away from this terrible place with its tens of thousands of ghosts. Especially after I had yielded to Watson's request and we had visited the famous bridge beyond Towton where so many men had died for little or no end. It was a relief to get back to London for once, although I did not forget to ‘arrange’ things for my cousin’s forthcoming weekend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I got a telegram the following Wednesday, marked simply ‘I hate you!’. Some cousin of mine really needed to take defeat better than that, so I dropped by to Campbell’s house and arranged for Tiny to have a second set of supplies….

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_¶ A fictional building, but in 1996 building work at Towton Hall north of the battle site did uncover a mass grave where there had very clearly been a massacre of at least twenty-four prisoners._  
_† The conflict between rival branches of the Plantagenet dynasty between 1455 and 1487 had been known as The Cousins' Wars up till the nineteenth century when the great writer Sir Walter Scott coined the modern phrase The Wars Of The Roses. This comes from a fictitious scene in one of the Shakespearian 'history' plays, when rival barons plucked different coloured roses to denote their loyalty. In fact although the White Rose was a common symbol for Yorkists, the Red Rose was hardly ever used by the Lancastrians until a cadet branch of their family called the Tudors came to power and blended the two to create the famous Tudor Rose._  
_‡ Henry Duke of Somerset (1436-1464). His father Edmund had been killed at St. Albans, the first battle of the war. The family had a strong claim to the throne itself despite their lineage having been legally barred. Henry managed to flee and even regained his title when he was unwisely forgiven by King Edward the Fourth in 1463, but rebelled almost immediately and was beheaded after the Battle of Hexham (1464). The line died out when his younger brothers Edmund and John were both killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, but their first cousin once removed became King Henry the Seventh after defeating King Richard the Third at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	10. Case 26. The Adventure Of The Hysterical Woman ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1877\. One of those cases that Holmes was Commanded to take by his fearsome (terrifying) mother. A friend of hers has been diagnosed with hysteria but maybe she just likes.... you know. Holmes duly investigates but so, so wishes that he had not - because some things can never be unseen!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

In my long and illustrious career there have been many cases which, for one reason or another, have left me traumatized. This is hardly surprising given my line of work, and I often empathized with Watson when he stated that at least half his problems had causes that were mental as much as physical. Indeed his skills in dealing with both would have served me well in this case, parts of which left me shaken to the core!

All right, it may have given me certain ideas that came in useful rather later in my relationship with Watson, but that is quite beside the point. I was traumatized then, damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It all began one fine May morning with a telegram from Mother. I winced as I read it, told Susan that there was no reply then stared dolefully at it.

“Problems?” Watson asked, as he forked across two of his four rashers of bacon.

I did not mean to – I probably did not mean to – but I gave him such a piteous look that he promptly forked across the other two rashers as well. Then he stared at me in alarm when I just looked at them.

“Not family again?” he hazarded.

“Worse”, I sighed, reaching for the ketchup. “Mother wishes to see me about a friend of hers!”

“One of her fellow criminals?” he asked with a slight smile.

“You mean her fellow _writers”,_ I said, a tad frostily. “She does not say. But this cannot be good; I know that she has just finished her latest horror about an insane nurse who doses all the patients in her hospital with a sex drug. You remember, 'Casualty'.”

He scowled at me.

“I am still trying to forget you even mentioning it!” he grumbled. “I _work_ with nurses, remember?”

Oh, yes. He had a point, I suppose, but he was not the one risking his sanity here. Besides, if I had to suffer my mother's terrible stories then so did he. He had chosen to move in with me, after all.

Shut up.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It seemed at first that Dame Fortune was favouring me that day, for I detoured via Luke's house and was told by a smirking Tiny that my cousin was not up yet (especially after two long and hard weekends recently, courtesy of a helpful family member), but would be 'up' later. For a huge fellow he had a sense of humour almost as bad as Watson's, something that I would have certainly remarked on had he not been a huge fellow. However Luke had left me a message (in shaky and barely legible handwriting) that he himself had narrowly avoided 'Casualty' the day before and had arranged with my father to have Randall drop by the house that same evening. The thought of the unpleasant lounge-lizard suffering that.... there was a God!

Unfortunately I was not to be spared my own dose of suffering. As usual I arrived to be greeted by another attempt by my mother to crush me – I always wondered if I had grown to be so tall simply because she had 'squeezed me out' while growing up – and once I could breathe again, I sat down.

“Thank you _so_ much for coming, Sherry-werry”, she twittered. “Such a shame that I did not send for you sooner; I am afraid that Randall got in ahead of you so I sent him off to edit my latest masterpiece. He said that he could hardly believe his luck!”

 _For once he spoke the truth_ , I thought, not at all cattily.

“But as I said, I needed to have _you_ here today”, she said. “I want to talk to you about sex.”

I baulked, and spluttered a mouthful of coffee across the room.

_”What?”_

“Manners, dear”, she said calmly. “Sex. You know, what goes on between men and women. Or between men and men at dear Campbell's place; _such_ a source of inspiration. He is always sending me ideas for my stories that he and his 'boys' keep getting out of their clients. By putting into their clients, I suppose.”

I made a mental note to do something very bad to my stepbrother the next time that I saw him, regardless of the fact that he was bigger than me. As I have said before one does _not_ feed a forest fire, especially when one knows that only other people have to go anywhere near it!

“Then there is Luke and that dear, sweet Mr. Little”, she went on. “I can see why he always wears those loose trousers, and why the dear boy limps so when he comes round to see me. But I always have a nice padded chair ready for him....”

“Mother!”

What hell was this that I had stumbled into?

“Then of course there is your father”, she said, seemingly determined to make me check myself into the nearest asylum despite having evaded her terrible stories. “I know that your generation thinks that they invented sex, but we who have been around longer have had the time to become much more creative....”

“What was it you wanted to see me about, Mother?” I managed.

“I told you, Sherry-werry”, she said in what sounded like a tone of exasperation as if I were the one at fault here. “Sex. A friend of mine has been diagnosed as hysterical, and she thinks that either her husband or her sister is behind it so they can get control of her money. Of course I said that _you_ would sort it all out for her.”

Mercifully thinking about that made the horrors of the past few minutes fade somewhat. Victorian attitudes towards sex were that, well, it happened (obviously) but that it did not need to be talked about (certain parents take note!) and that anyone who did or who enjoyed it too much was therefore mentally unbalanced (certain stepbrothers also take note!). Watson had told me that he thought the whole thing was bunkum, and that a quarter of the capital's female population was not hysterical at all. He also also made a strange remark about a large proportion of the female population and even some gentlemen who leered at certain people most improperly, which I had not understood at all.

“What is the name of this friend?” I asked.

“Mrs. Beatrice Handley”, she said. “Her sister is Catherine, and her husband is called Albert. Both bad lots in my opinion and likely in league with her doctor, a fellow called Adler or some such. Beattie is a wonderful person; I am sure that she is as sane as I am!”

Because I quite enjoyed living, I did not make the obvious comment there. Indeed I tried to even avoid thinking it until I was safely out of the house with Mrs. Handley's address. I supposed that my mother was right about one thing; there was no way that this Mrs. Handley could be as bad as my own mother.

For such an intelligent man I could be incredibly stupid at times. Unfortunately this, to the cost of my peace of mind if not my sanity, was to be one of those times.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I arranged for both Watson and his friend Peter Greenwood to examine Mrs. Handley and to make their own assessments of her. I fully expected then to both conclude that she was quite sane – well, as sane as anyone who wrote stories like those of my mother could be – but when I asked my friend about it, he hesitated for some reason.

“I am sure that the lady is not hysterical”, he said carefully, “but like too many of my own patients I had the impression, and Peter agreed with me on this, that she was not telling us something. Although I have no idea as to what.”

It exasperated me that in both our professions we encountered people like that, who would give us only half the facts and then complain if we reached erroneous conclusions. Even with a brilliant mind like mine, the supply of inadequate or erroneous information could only lead to incorrect conclusions.

“My own research established that the husband may be rather too close to her sister”, I said, “and that they are trying to get her committed in order to get at her money. One odd thing; she seems to be surprisingly well-off for someone who runs a small ladies' wear shop in Chelsea.”

“Maybe she does freelance work, like that terrible Ricoletti woman?” he suggested. 

“Maybe”, I said. “But having a wife declared insane does not end a marriage, as we both know. Unless the husband and the sister are content to live 'in sin', all that they would gain is control of her moneys and her shop. I noted however that they are both the moralizing sort, so that seems out of character.”

“As your mother might say, sex overrides all!” he grinned.

“Watson!”

I glared at him in horror. He was well on the way to becoming an ex-friend!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I decided to approach the lady in question myself and ask her what she thought might be afoot. It would certainly go down as one of the worst decisions that I ever made in my long and glittering career!

Mrs. Handley’s shop, the oddly-named 'Lace Is More', was in a quiet back-street of Chelsea, and I was more than a little surprised to find that Mr. Timothy Hartland, one of Campbell's 'boys', worked there as a shop-assistant. He looked oddly embarrassed to see me which I supposed was understandable; few molly-men were comfortable mixing their jobs, and he seemed far from the sort of person I would expect to find in such a place. Mrs. Handley on the other hand was a jolly lady of about thirty-five years of age and thanked me for having my doctor friends examine her.

“I was planning to divorce Albert anyway”, she said, “as I know that he and Cathy have been seeing each other. It was quite amusing you know, watching them preach morals at me and then contrive to maintain a relationship behind my back.”

“I suppose that money was also a motive”, I said. “You seem to be doing quite well.”

She smiled what I thought was a dangerous smile.

“Would you like to see how, Mr. Holmes?”

I made what would be my second terrible decision of the day, and nodded. She whispered something to Timothy, who blushed for some reason before stepping out the back. We made polite conversation for a few minutes then she came round and flipped the sign on the door to closed before leading me out the back. There was a small reception room there and I could see Timothy's head sticking up above the screen.

_What on earth was going on here?_

“Come out, Timmy!” she said.

The behemoth came round the screen and..... oh my God, no! No no no no no no no no _no!_ He was wearing panties! Black, sheer, lacy panties! Even worse, he was clearly comfortable in the damn things!

“Your stepbrother Mr. Kerr has certain clients who like this sort of thing”, Mrs. Handley said as if she was not currently traumatizing me even more than one of my mother's stories (some achievement!). “Not many of course, and as you can see one has to go for a larger size as well as allowing rather more room up front. Quite a lot of room for some of the dear boys, Timmy included.”

I was just speechless!

“And the clients who like them, they also tend to want to take them home and wear them in private”, she said. “Or even out in public; there are few things to match the thrill of knowing and others not knowing. Which usually means that I have to make a second lot.”

This could not be worse!

“Your cousin Mr. Garrick went for a complete lingerie set, you know. For both him and Mr. Little; I had to hand-make the latter because as you know he is large in just about every dimension!”

I took back that last thought. Ye Gods, what sort of world had I stumbled into?

“You can take them off and reopen the shop now, Timmy”, Mrs. Handley smiled.

“Can't I keep them on, miss?” the fellow asked earnestly.

I grabbed the table for support.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Worst of all was that I could not tell Watson what I had seen because..... I could not prevent my frazzled brain from conjuring up the image of him wearing.... no no no and a thousand times, no!

I sent Luke a telegram asking him if this was true, and the bastard wired me back to say that he had been wearing them the last time he talked to me. I thought longingly of the people I knew who would dispatch him into the next world in an instant... damnation, I could not. Much as the villain deserved it, that would mean that I would have to cope with Tiny's Sad Face. That was surely the only thing even worse than my mother's stories! Or my latest client's..... no no no no no!

My bastard of a cousin must have also told Campbell, for the next time I saw him he made several allusions to the case. To top it all he was wearing a kilt and he implied that...... Lord help me, I had terrible relatives!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	11. Case 27: The Adventure Of The Brothers-In-Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. A case of incest or impersonation, but either way one in which Doctor John Watson learns a somewhat inconvenient truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the persecution of John Vincent Harden.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

_“'As I was going to St. Ives,_   
_I met a man with seven wives,_   
_Each wife had seven sacks,_   
_Each sack had seven cats,_   
_Each cat had seven kits:_   
_Kits, cats, sacks and wives,_   
_How many were there going to St. Ives?'”_

“Obviously just the one.”

I did not squawk nor did I do an unmanly little jump into the air. Well, not much of one. I turned and glared at my soon to be ex-friend who smiled innocently back at me.

“I would have thought that _you_ would claim there to have been insufficient information”, I said, perhaps a little haughtily. “We are not told whether the man and his party were overtaken by the speaker on their way to the town or met coming away from it. You are the one always banging on about the importance of having all the facts.”

“I like facts”, he said simply. “But I rather think that this case will not be as easily solved as a child's riddle.”

I sighed in a put-upon manner although secretly I was pleased at my role of assistant to the great detective, especially for such an important case. This morning he had been summoned to wait on Frederick, Earl of Derby. Thanks to some adroit manoeuvring by the current government George Duke of Cambridge, the Queen's cousin and a man who could very well have been king himself had things worked out differently†, was still Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces in name but his role had been re-worked (i.e. downgraded) to be subservient to that of the Secretary of State for War, the aforementioned earl who was a former captain in the army and a sound fellow. It was he who had sent for Holmes to ask him to investigate 'a most delicate matter', to wit the Kilmartin twins.

Captain James and Captain John Kilmartin were then in their late forties and recently retired from the British Army. They had achieved fame for their part in the memorable Battle of Rorke's Drift‡ six months earlier where barely a hundred British soldiers had valiantly fought off over three thousand savage Zulu warriors. Both men had been injured in the battle hence their retirement, and their return to England had even made the London press. The earl of course had been pleased at the good publicity, which was why subsequent events had led him to call for Holmes.

The Kilmartin twins owned a small house which lay on the road between St. Ives and the nearby village of Fenstanton. John was unmarried while James had wed a Boer girl during his first posting in southern Africa over two decades earlier, and she had had two sons Jameson and Jacob, dying soon after the second birth. This second set of brothers, both unmarried, shared a small cottage less than half a mile from their father's house, and it was Mr. Jacob Kilmartin who came to meet us at a small restaurant in town.

“His Grace was less than communicative about the nature of the case that he wished us to investigate”, Holmes said as we sat down. “I must tell you Mr. Kilmartin, that I myself was initially disinclined to take a case based on such little information. It is fortunate for you and the British government that Doctor Watson here is such an ardent patriot, and pressed me to accept it.”

I blushed at my mention. Yes, I had said that I wished Holmes would take this case but I had not expected him to actually follow my advice. And his use of the 'us' word made me feel warm inside even if I strongly suspected that I would supply little if anything to the investigation.

“I am thankful that you have come”, Mr. Kilmartin said gravely. “The matter is a serious one and I do not think that it can be easily resolved. My father and I would both be grateful if you could find a solution, because I do not see one myself.”

“When a trainee lawyer says that”, Holmes observed, “it is indeed ominous. But kindly place all the facts before us and we shall see what we can do.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“The matter in question concerns a villain by the name of Mr. John Vincent Harden”, Mr. Kilmartin began once coffee had been served (at least Holmes was fully caffeinated!). “My father and uncle returned to the town in May having managed to secure a berth on one of the faster ships coming round the Cape and for a few weeks all was well. Until early in June when this blackguard arrived.”

“Who is this Mr. Harden?” I asked. Mr. Kilmartin hesitated.

“He _claims_ to be my half-cousin”, he said at last, “the result of an affair that Uncle John had with a girl before he reached his first posting many years back. He is of course lying.”

Holmes looked at him sharply.

“How can you know that for a fact?” he asked. The young fellow snorted.

“My uncle may be a little withdrawn and anti-social but he would _never_ do something like that!” he said scornfully.

I wondered how he could be so sure. Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment but when he spoke it seemed that he had dropped that particular line of questioning.

“Why should this Mr. Harden lie?” he asked.

“My grandfather, the late Colonel Julius Kilmartin, left everything he died possessed of jointly to my father and uncle”, our host said. “He had two other sons and a daughter, but they were all selfish and self-serving, and they frankly deserved the farthing that each of them got. The colonel had invested very wisely in some profitable gold mines in South Africa, and he too inherited some money so it was a large inheritance even when split in two. Both my father and uncle have been invited to teach at Sandhurst when the new intake starts in September but they can hardly do that with this hanging over them.”

Holmes nodded. He clearly (to me at least) had something but was not ready to share it yet.

“So Mr. Harden is trying to obtain recognition as your cousin”, he said. “What proof does he have?”

“He has not yet shown any”, Mr. Kilmartin said.. “The only problem is that his mother hails from Gibraltar, and I know that my uncle served there at around the time of Mr. Harden's birth. But that he would do such a thing is out of the question!”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment. His next question surprised me.

“Who is your family doctor, sir?”

Mr. Kilmartin looked as surprised as I was by the question. 

“Doctor Helston”, he said. “His surgery is in the High Street, a small place next to the Taverner's Inn. Is that important?”

“I rather think that it may be”, Holmes said mysteriously. “If you leave us your card we shall call when we have news.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes duly called in at the surgery but whatever he was looking for was apparently not there because he was out in barely a minute. He chuckled at my confusion.

“We shall wire Randall in London”, he said, “and he can make himself useful for once.”

“What about?” I asked, exasperatedly.

“Wait and see!” he teased.

I pou... scowled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

While Holmes sent his telegram I purchased a newspaper from the shop. I noticed that the claims of this Mr. Harden had made the front page and I winced. I mentioned it to Holmes when he came out but he seemed unperturbed.

“Do you still wish to go over to Huntingdon?” he asked instead. A fellow student from St. Bartholomew's whom I had known as a passing acquaintance had taken up a post in the nearby county town, and I had mentioned that time permitting I might call in on him.

“If you do not need me”, I said. 

“Only later”, he said. “The post-office has a railway timetable so you can see if there is a train that will get you there and back by this evening.”

As it happened there was, so we separated and I went off to see Doctor Edward Merridale.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes and I had arranged to meet back at the inn but I was earlier than expected so decided to take a walk along the High Street. The midsummer sun was lower in the sky now and it was pleasurable to walk down the streets of an old country town thinking....

_Ye Gods!_

I stared incredulously through the window of the same restaurant where Holmes and I had met Mr. Kilmartin earlier that same day. Holmes was back in there – and opposite him was some blonde female clearly trying to flirt with him. 

I blinked. What the hell was I thinking? We were just two friends neither of whom who had yet found ladies that we wished to raise a family with, and were enjoying ourselves while we were still young enough so to do. It was stupid of me to think that what we had would last; after all I had only lived with the fellow for a few years.

He looked up sharply and I just had time to dodge out of sight. I decided to walk back to the inn and see if the fresh Huntingdonshire air would help me cope with my funk. 

It did not.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes was late back from his da.... his meeting which of course set my mind running even more frantically, and I wondered if he had taken his lady-friend for a walk or..... even back to her house? I got into bed while it was still light outside and tried to read my book but even the great Mr. Charles Dickens could not hold my attention, my mind straying constantly to my absent friend. Finally he returned seemingly tired out – Lord, why? - and undressed immediately before getting into his bed and falling asleep at once. I hated how he could do that. 

Next morning I was still feeling down. I hoped that Holmes would not notice which, considering his skills, showed just how out of sorts I was.

“What is wrong?” he yawned over breakfast. “You look like someone has told you about my secret career as an axe-murderer!”

I decided that I would be the better man and not say anything foolish or idiotic.

“I saw you with that woman!” I blurted out, wishing a second too late that my mouth would not set out from the station platform before my brain was even in line for a ticket. To my surprise he chuckled.

“Yes that was Miss Broxbourne, Doctor Helston's secretary”, he said. “In light of how I expected the case to develop I felt that it would be useful to find out what role she played in recent developments.”

I looked at him in confusion. 

“What does the doctor's secretary have to do with anything?” I demanded.

He looked at me curiously and I prayed to whatever deity might be listening that he would not ask the obvious question. I do not know how many credits I used up in heaven – rather too many in all likelihood - but it worked. He hesitated only briefly before returning to his breakfast.

“I shall tell you later”, he mumbled over his beloved bacon.

Yes, and mine. All of it. But it was worth a year's supply of bacon not to have a certain conversation just then. _Or any time in the next hundred years!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At Mr. Kilmartin's office we were introduced to Mr. John Vincent Harden. I have to say that I disliked the fellow on sight; he had one of those faces that suggests that some parts of humanity had not descended that far from our common ancestors with other vermin. He was about twenty-one years of age and had brown hair that was both slicked down and perfumed. Pretentious indeed! He squinted at us over the top of thick-framed spectacles.

“I trust that you gentlemen are not going to interfere in my rightful claims against my father's estate”, he sniffed.

Ye Gods even his voice was nasal! I hated him even more. Holmes sat down in the other visitors' chair while I stood.

“I understand that your claim is that Mr. John Kilmartin is your father”, Holmes said carefully, “which would make you the result of a relationship some two decades back between him and your mother Miss Betty Martin, later Mrs. Cannock.”

“It is not a _claim;_ it is a fact!” Mr. Harden said testily.

“May I ask if your mother is aware of your pursuing this claim?” Holmes asked.

“My mother has nothing to do with me any more”, the fellow said sounding bitter about it. “She disapproves of my decision but that is her right. All I demand is a fair settlement.”

Holmes smiled dangerously.

“I am sure that we can reach a settlement that is quite fair.”

I knew that voice; he had something. Sure enough he took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and placed them on the desk in front of Mr. Harden.

“What are these?” the man demanded, not touching them.

“Papers concerning the recent collapse of the Farnborough & Fleet Insurance Company”, Holmes said airily. “I had them couriered up from London on the first train of the day.”

Mr. Harden had gone pale. 

“I do not know what you are talking about, sir”, he sniffed.

Holmes shook his head at him.

“It really will not do, Mr. Harden”, he said reprovingly. “But since you persist in denial I will tell you and the others here what really brought you to the Fens. The collapse of the Farnborough & Fleet hit many investors, among whom was your stepfather Mr. Caleb Cannock. He worked for that company, and he likely used his position to find out that you were involved in bringing about that collapse. He then used that as leverage to force you into this charade.”

“You lie!”

“Mr. Cannock knew of his wife's background and that she had had a friendship with one of the Kilmartins when they were both younger”, Holmes went on. “Checking the dates he realized that you were of roughly the right age to falsely claim to be a result of that relationship, and that while the claim might or might not be successfully pursued the Kilmartins would probably pay good money to get you to go away. Indeed considering the good publicity that their name has brought the army even the British government might dip into their taxpayers' pockets to be rid of you. So you and your fellow parasite came up with this vile ramp to blackmail two heroic men who have served this country loyally and patriotically. You are both villains of the first order!”

“Lies!” the man hissed, looking increasingly nervous.

“However when you came to St. Ives you decided to check things out first and met with Miss Broxbourne, the local doctor's secretary”, Holmes went on. “She in a moment of weakness let slip a certain fact that greatly strengthened your hand, one which made you realize the Kilmartins would pay even more to buy your silence. You made your play but you, sir, have lost.”

“I shall go to the newspapers!” he threatened. “I shall ruin you all!”

Holmes smiled darkly and took an envelope out of his pocket which he placed before the fellow. Mr. Harden looked at it fearfully.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A train ticket to London and a ticket for the barque 'Elizabeth', due to leave St. Catherine's Dock at eight this evening”, Holmes said. “You will return to your hotel, pack, take the train to King's Cross and be out of this country by nightfall. But Mr. Harden....”

He moved his chair closer to the villain, who cowered away from him.

“Kindly understand that I have friends whose reach is _incredibly_ long”, Holmes said. “If one single word word of what you know appears in a single British newspaper any time in the future, then there will be a knife in your back less than twenty-four hours later. The 'Elizabeth' stops off in San Salvador, Cape Town, Bombay, Singapore and Perth before reaching Sydney. No matter where you choose to restart your life, I or my agents will find you. _Then they will kill you.”_

His tone was icy and even I shivered. Mr. Harden whimpered and almost fell over his feet as he all but ran to the door, having to dash back to grab his tickets. Holmes smiled reassuringly at me and I let loose a breath I had not even known that I had been holding in. Holmes turned to Mr. Kilmartin.

“I think, sir”, he said calmly, “that you should go and inform your father that all is well. Then possibly celebrate the news with.... your brother.”

The young lawyer looked as shocked as I felt, but nodded and thanked Holmes profusely for his efforts.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We checked out of the hotel and took a train back to Cambridge where we changed to the main line to London. Holmes had checked at St. Ives station and Mr. Harden had caught an earlier train.

“So what was the terrible secret that Mr. John Vincent Harden extracted from the garrulous Miss Broxbourne?” I asked.

He smiled at me.

“I am afraid that this is one case that will not see the light of day for many a year”, he said ruefully. “But it has certainly been interesting. Especially your unwonted display of jealousy over Miss Broxbourne.”

I blushed fiercely. He chuckled.

“I am sure that Mr. James Kilmartin is mostly a good man”, Holmes began, “and ironically it was an act of kindness on his part that led to his family's recent troubles. Randall found for me that a colleague of his from his time in India, a Major Brockenhurst, had died and left behind a young son who was about a year younger than James Kilmartin's own son Jameson. The Brockenhursts were involved in a major scandal at the time – unfairly, but you know what the newspapers are like - and the colonel decided that the best way to bury the boy's past was by passing him off as his own son. Some fake documents made it seem as if he had two sons by his wife, not one; she actually died a few months before Jacob's birth so the date on her death certificate was subsequently altered.”

“There was much to be said for his actions but then the Fates threw a rather large spanner in the works when the boys hit puberty and began to develop sexual feelings - _for each other!_ Naturally such a thing between brothers of the blood was unthinkable in polite society and Mr. James Kilmartin understandably did not approve of the relationship. He was as you might guess able to frustrate it by the simple expedient of not telling the boys about Jacob's past. However it is truly said that 'the truth will out', especially when one has a blabbermouth the size of Miss Broxbourne in the vicinity. The boys found out the truth, but for their father's sake agreed not to be open in their relationship.”

I thought about that for a moment. I could see why the brothers had taken that decision. Small towns were instinctively conservative but for two brothers to share a house – well it would be only natural. No-one would suspect anything between them. So that was what Holmes had meant when he told Jacob Kilmartin about celebrating with... his brother! 

_(Yes, I am sure that some readers will be thinking about the Selkirk twins Balin and Balan, but they were clearly_ lower- _class so did not know any better!)_

“So to continue”, Holmes said. “All marches well; the 'brothers' grow into two fine young men while their father and uncle rightly ascend to become national heroes as a result of their brave actions. Unfortunately we then have the unpleasant Mr. Harden on the lookout for money to fund the lifestyle he thinks that he deserves as of right. He comes to St. Ives hoping to have his silence bought but in checking his story he learns the family secret from the atrocious Miss Broxbourne. She did not know the full details herself otherwise surely all England would have known by now, but she was aware that her employer knew something about the young men was 'off' and hinted as much to Mr. Harden who then managed to obtain the records by some means. One can only hope that she follows him out of town; not only is she terribly indiscreet but her perfume is overpowering!”

I smiled at that. 

“It is sad in a way, though”, I said. “They love each other but must remain 'brothers' to stop tongues wagging.”

“Can you imagine how the British Army would react to such a scandal?” he snorted. “The papers would have a field-day with the story and their lives here would become totally untenable. Plus many would claim that they really are brothers and that they are committing incest, which as we know is something that only the peasants ever do. No, life is far from perfect and this is in all the best solution.”

“That is so old-fashioned”, I said. “People should be allowed to do what they want provided it is with consenting adults.”

“Provided that it does not make certain other people jealous, of course!” he grinned.

I pou.... scowled. I did not like him after all.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Duke George's father had been Adolphus Duke of Cambridge (1774-1850), the seventh son of King George III. When Princess Charlotte of Wales, only child of the then-Prince Regent, had died in 1817 it had been belatedly realized that all of the king's sons had no legitimate offspring so several of them were bri... persuaded into marriages in an attempt to remedy that. George was born on 26th March 1819 and was in line to be our monarch for some two months before he was displaced by another George, the son of Ernest Duke of Cumberland, Adolphus's elder brother. The latter was in turn displaced by the future Queen Victoria, daughter of an even older brother Edward Duke of Kent. The new Duke of Cambridge continued to be obstructive to any efforts at reform and was eventually (1895) forced to retire, although the damage that he had done to the British Army was considerable._   
_‡ Part of the 1879 Anglo-Zulu War, largely prompted by the threat that the Dutch Boer Orange Free State and South African Republic ('The Transvaal') would seem to conquer the Zulus themselves to gain their desired outlet to the sea. The First Boer War that ensued the following year was caused by the same 'threat'._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	12. Case 28: The Adventure Of The Repellent Philanthropist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. A young gentleman who wants answers results in the two friends travelling to the far south-west, and Watson's discovery of a painful truth about Holmes's past. They also meet a handsome gentleman who will later play an important part in both their lives and of whom Watson is absolutely definitely not the least bit jealous, no matter how good-looking he is. So there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of suicide.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: This sad story contains a reference to a gentleman who committed suicide. I would take this opportunity to remind the reader that such an act was regarded as a crime in those days, which showed the desperation that the poor gentleman had been driven to. Thankfully attitudes today are much more tolerant.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Of the many and varied people who were to play such a pivotal role in Holmes's and my life, few were more important than the Hawke family. I shall not go into much detail here as some blue-eyed bacon-stealing detective says I am wont to do at times, but the family had like so many been divided in the English Civil War and it had been fortunate that one of them, Jane Hawke, caught the eye of King Charles the Second after the Restoration (I know; which female at his court did not?) and was rewarded with her father Petronius being made first Lord Hawke. The family's estates were copious with their main seat down in Wiltshire and I knew that they had some sort of ties to the Holmeses which my friend had mentioned on the exceedingly rare occasions that I talked about people I had happened to read about on the off-chance in the social pages once in a while if I had a spare moment.

Damnation, I can _hear_ that smirk!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There was no sign of the troubles ahead when our next client called at Cramer Street. Mr. Stuart Billesley was a tall young fellow of around twenty years of age and very slender of build. He had flaxen, almost white hair and seemed alarmingly assured of himself for one so young. The only slightly odd thing was that Holmes looked at him a little uncertainly as he came in, although I had no idea why as he had said the name was unknown to him.

“I have a rather curious matter to lay before you, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said, and I detected what was definitely a Midlands accent in his voice. “I do not know if you would be prepared to take it on but I wish for someone to be found.”

“You have lost someone?” Holmes asked.

“Not exactly”, he said, frowning. “You see, it is like this. My mother was Miss Alice Olney.”

The name meant nothing to me but it clearly had some resonance with my friend. I had known him long enough that even though there was no change in his outward expression I knew that that name had affected him in some way. Affected him most deeply.

“Who is this lady?” I ventured. Holmes turned to me.

“She was involved in a society scandal at the start of the decade”, he said, and even his voice was slightly off. “It did not draw the attention that it would normally have merited as it happened just days after the death of the Prince Consort. She had been engaged to be married to young Lord Tobias Hawke but on the day of their wedding she eloped with a lowly Welsh bank clerk called Mr. Milton Carew†, She was not found until eight months later when it was reported that she had died in childbirth and that Mr. Carew had fled to the New World. Her family had long disowned her; poor Lord Toby blew his brains out when he was told of his former fiancée's passing.”

I know that my readers will say it is hindsight, but at that moment I definitely began to get a bad feeling. There was something odd here, something more than he was telling me. I also wondered about that 'Toby'; Holmes was always formal with anyone except close friends and those family members he liked, so it was unusual to say the least.

“I was that child”, our guest explained, “and I was subsequently raised by my maternal grandfather Mr. Stuart Olney. He died not long after, unfortunately, and care of me passed to my uncle Mr. Peter Billesley from whom I have received nothing but kindness and consideration, which is why I took his surname when I reached eighteen. Which makes the matter at hand even more complicated.”

“How so?” Holmes asked.

“I reached eighteen just over a year ago”, Mr. Billesley said. “At that time I came into a substantial inheritance as of right. The monthly allowance that I now receive is more than adequate to allow me to live as a gentleman of the highest quality.”

I frowned. There did not seem to be much of a problem with having lots of money, or if so it was one that I would quite like to have had myself!

“Then what is the problem?” Holmes asked, smiling slightly for some reason.

“Uncle Peter is one of the trustees of my inheritance”, the young man explained, “and his son my cousin Thomas, is another. One condition of it is that I am not to know whence the money comes. But I am curious.”

“I might advise you at this point to remember Pandora's Box”, Holmes said sagely. “She pried into some matter that she had been warned not to, and Mankind regretted it for all eternity. I dare say that it would be possible to find out who is behind your current good fortune, but surely you are aware that doing that may cause them to stop helping you?”

The young man looked anxious for some reason.

“You see”, he said slowly, “I have done some thinking on the matter myself. It cannot be from my mother's family; they are well-off enough but not to supply this sort of money on a weekly basis, nor do I see why they would. The Hawkes are rich but they understandably will have nothing to do with me; Lord Theobald's lawyer communicated that fact quite clearly to me when I came of age. And there is something else that is strange, which you should know if you are going to try to help me.”

“Go on”, Holmes said.

“Mr. George Brent, Tom's brother-in-law, is a friend of about my own age”, he said. “Of course he cannot help me directly but he did tell me something which I think may be of import. The Olney estates are as you may know in Derbyshire and Leicestershire, where I was raised and still live. Yet for the past three years my uncle has been receiving letters always around the time of my birthday. The postmark was a place called Hugh Town in Cornwall.”

Again there was the slightest, almost imperceptible reaction from my friend to that name. I was almost looking forward to the fellow's departure so I could find out what the hell was going on here.

“I do not know if I can help you, sir”, Holmes said. “But if you leave us your card, I promise that I will do what I can with the contacts that I have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I did not press the matter, even when the following day we left early for Paddington to catch a train the three hundred miles or so to Penzance, where I knew there was a ferry boat out to the Scilly Isles whose capital was Hugh Town. Holmes seemed unusually lost in thought even for him and I sensed that he did not want to talk. 

We obtained some refreshments at Bristol and were past Exeter before he finally spoke.

“Have you ever wondered as to how and why I became a detective in the first place?”

Of course I had. But this was Holmes who could be terrifying at the worst of times even with his coffee and at least half of my bacon. I had never felt inclined (as in brave enough) to ask.

“I assumed that you would tell me”, I said. “In the fullness of time.”

“I think that that time is now”, he said looking unusually serious even for him. “This may be a dark case, Watson, and I doubt that I will be able to achieve much for poor Mr. Billesley except hopefully to preserve his inheritance.”

“Why do you call him 'poor Mr. Billesley'?” I asked.

“We shall see if the worst is indeed true before I tell you that”, he said. “First as to how I became a consulting detective.”

I leaned forward, all agog.

“One of my earliest memories is from 'Sixty-One, the year the terrible American Civil War started and when I was but seven years old”, he began. “I was a curious child even then, although with my family it was perhaps noticed less than it otherwise might have been. I was sitting at the kitchen table – there was strawberry blancmange, I recall for some reason – when Carl, who was thirteen at the time, brought a friend home. His name was Tobias Hawke, and he had recently become Lord Hawke because his father Lord Sheridan had resigned the title due to ill-health.”

“I distinctly recall my mother being 'off' in some way - and before you say it, I know that that is a regular thing”, he said with a small smile. “The Hawkes were I knew long-time family friends of ours and Father had had several business dealings with Lord Sheridan. His son however - it was not just that he was nobility; he was... beautiful. I had never given much thought to what I wanted to be when I grew up, but this was a walking breathing example of perfection that I so wanted to become.”

I must have reacted at that because he smiled.

“Lord Toby was that rare thing, a man equally beautiful inside and out”, he said, sounding almost sad. “I do not use the word lightly, my friend; he was of the Classic Greek looks and with a grace that one usually only sees frozen into cold stone in ancient statues. I know that I do not take as much care with my own appearance as I might, but that is partly because I have grown to look somewhat like him and every time I look in the mirror – it saddens me. I am growing into what he never had the chance to become.”

I seemed to be getting a lump in my throat. He took a ragged breath and ploughed on.

“I have in my time met too many men since whose pleasant exteriors concealed dark natures. That is the true difference between us; inside I can never be half the man that he had the potential to be and was close to becoming, although I try. He was kindness itself back then and talked to me as an adult. I remember hoping desperately that he would return one day, but the scandal that would finish him broke barely a month later.”

“He took his own life”, I said. “A terrible thing, to be cuckolded like that.”

He nodded.

“As you probably know, Lord Sheridan had married twice”, he said. “Lord Tobias and his sisters were grown by the time all this happened and the title went to the only child of the second marriage, the current Lord Theobald. He was only two years old when he inherited but his father retook some of the work on and he was particularly fortunate in his son-in-law, his daughter Mary's husband Mr. Henry Buckingham, was a lawyer. It is odd Mr. Billesley choosing now to approach me; Lord Sheridan died only a few weeks ago and Lord Theobald only turned eighteen last year.”

“Mycroft, being Mycroft, tried to tell me the story in a way to make poor Lord Toby look guilty, but Carl suspected what he was up to and told me the whole thing despite my young age. I always remember one thing that he said afterwards, namely that some families seem marked out for ill-fortune. That it should have been someone as bright and beautiful as Lord Tobias Hawke who lost his life - it seemed terribly wrong to a young boy.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. He took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it fondly.

“What nearly broke me was what happened not long after he had died”, he said. “Carl came to me with a small box and said that Lord Toby had left it for me. When I opened it, I found this pipe and the deer-stalker inside it. That golden day he came and was so happy, he had just purchased both and when Mycroft laughed at me for admiring them, he said that I should have my own one day. I am sure that many think the hat in particular is strange for a consulting detective, but it and the pipe are all that I have left of him; that he thought of someone as insignificant as me while his life was falling apart was so typical of the man. I keep the originals safely locked away and only ever use copies when I am out and about.”

I sniffed. Manfully, of course. He paused for some time before continuing.

“Our little adventure in Oxford was my first real case”, he said, “but I had long developed an interest in crime and the law. The summer before I met you I had returned to the family house in London for the holidays. It will not surprise you that with my family I found little in the way of peace there!”

I smiled at that.

“One day Mother was threatening to start reading some of her stories to me”, he said, “so I went – all right, I _fled_ to a local tavern. While I was there a constable new to the area came in and three of the local lads starting mocking him. I pointed out that they should desist from their actions as they too could not help the way that they looked, which in their cases was most unfortunate.”

“LeStrade?” I guessed.

“LeStrade”, he grinned. “A mere constable then although like Gregson he was up for promotion at the time; the Metropolitan Police Service's guardian angel must have been watching over them for a sergeant had to resign in a corruption scandal during the process so they both got promoted. Anyway, back then he helped me escort the gentlemen off the premises. I stood him a drink – fortunately he was off duty and on his way home – and we talked about various cases that he was on. He did not use any real names of course.”

“Of course”, I said.

_(It was odd that our conversation should have turned to our police friend, because Holmes had just been instrumental in helping him out in a personal matter. As he had mentioned during the Farintosh case LeStrade and his wife liked to holiday in the Lancashire resort of Blackpool as a rule, but this year they had gone instead to a friend of Valerie's in Sussex. This was also the year that the famous Blackpool Illuminations first started, and LeStrade had mentioned how upset his wife had been at the fact that she was to miss that great event. Being aware of this Holmes had covertly arranged – i.e. paid - for the family to have an extra week off 'due to an administrative error' and they had just decamped to their favourite seaside guest-house there. Hopefully one with a bakery nearby!)._

“We struck up a friendship and took to meeting there once a week”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me for some reason. “The last time before I had to return to Bargate he seemed unusually depressed – yes, I know he has the face for it! - so I asked why. Apparently young Lord Theobald was being 'difficult'.”

“At such a young age?” I said. “Why?”

“You may remember that after the American Civil War, relations between our two great nations were difficult for some considerable time. Matters were just easing around then and despite only being thirteen the new Lord Hawke had somehow managed to discover that Mr. Milton Carew had not been listed among those entering that country at the time he had apparently fled there. Unfortunately he had also acquired a seat in the House of Lords – he could not of course take it up until his majority but it still gave him influence - so he was able to demand action from those in charge, although how they expected the Metropolitan Police Service to solve a case from over a decade ago....well. To cap it all Lord Sheridan who was still alive then was a friend of the Commissioner Sir Edmund Henderson, so naturally all the work fell on the likes of LeStrade and those at the coal-face.”

I found it hard to imagine the ponderous sergeant as a fresh-faced constable, even though that had been just six years ago. The slight smile on my friend's face told me that he knew my thoughts. No change there, then.

“You think that this Mr. Carew may have instead slipped over to the Scilly Isles?” I asked. “They are remote enough even in this day and age.”

He nodded.

“A good man died back then”, he said, his face hardening. “If the man who drove him to that death somehow cheated the Grim Reaper, then he should be made to pay for it.”

I had a nagging suspicion that it might not be that easy - and typically this was to be a rare time when I would be proven right. I could not know however just what other 'difficulties' this case would bring - for both of us.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Even with the best offices of the Great Western and Cornwall Railway Companies it was still the best part of a day before we arrived in Penzance, and with it still being technically summer we were grateful to find a small guest-house that could accommodate us. Holmes told me that he expected us to have to spend at least one night on the islands, most likely in Hugh Town where the ferry docked. I was just grateful for a bed and that I was tired enough to sleep despite my concerns for my friend in this case. I had never seen him so low.

The following day we left early to catch the boat to the islands, which lie some thirty miles off the south-western tip of Cornwall. It is believed that in times past they may have been connected to the rest of England when sea-levels were lower than they are today, and they were both surprisingly warm and quite beautiful. Mercifully the sea-crossing was fairly calm and I was even able to keep my breakfast down, which was good. A light breakfast as I gave Sherlock all my bacon that morning; he clearly needed it even if he gave me a look that threatened dangerously to turn into a Moment. Ugh!

Hugh Town was quaint in a tourist-y way and we managed to find a hotel there before Holmes set about his inquiries. I suppose that I should not have been surprised that my brilliant friend was able to speak fluent Cornish and charm his way past the local people's innate suspicions of outsiders, and by late afternoon he had something.

“There is a religious community on the island of Annet”, he said, “the island beyond St. Agnes. Some two decades ago someone arrived to the island and had a cottage built for them, or at least rebuilt from a ruin. I did not get a name but the people I spoke to were quite sure that he was not from the West Country.”

“Hiding out here”, I muttered. “Is he the one behind the money being given to young Mr Billesley, do you think? And if so, why?”

“It seems possible”, Holmes frowned. “But leopards do not change their spots and I doubt that a criminal can change his true nature. Tomorrow we shall take a boat out and see. I had better go and ask our landlady if she will lay on some supper for us.”

“Actually I thought we might try a restaurant that I found in the town”, I said. “I think that you would like it.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because they serve three different types of bacon! _And_ free coffee!”

He shook his head at me but I definitely caught the smile. I liked it when he smiled, especially at a troubled time like this.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Annet was so small as to not merit its own ferry service although the St. Agnes mail boat continued to there when necessary before returning to Hugh Town. However it naturally waited for the boat from the mainland so would not sail until after lunch. Holmes was able to persuade a young fisherman called Mr. Lowen Trevelyan – he could surely not have been more than eighteen years of age if that - to take us over that morning and to call for us some hours later. I would have been grateful but I did not like the way that the moderately athletic and passably attractive white-blond fellow eyed my friend up and down as if he was a piece of meat and the fisherman a starving dog. Holmes looked an even worse mess than usual with the wind off the Atlantic playing havoc with his hair, and once more I wondered as to the power he had to make people look at him that way.

No, it was _not_ Miss Broxbourne and her come-hither eyes all over again. No, I was _not_ jealous. And that had better not be anything even approaching a smirk, damn the fellow!

The island of Annet was tiny indeed, consisting of two sections of about three hundred yards each in length joined by a narrow isthmus. There was a tiny harbour on the north-west corner of the island and a wooden pier into which we were able to scramble. With one last leer our fisherman left us to, presumably, go fish (I did not glare after him whatever anyone with blue eyes later claimed).

A barely discernible path led to first the cottage that we had been told about then past a small shepherd's hut by the isthmus before ending at the small monastery. We walked to the cottage and Holmes knocked at the door. It was opened by an elderly man who had to have been in his sixties at least. Definitely not Mr. Milton Carew who I knew had to be somewhere around forty, unless he was a master of disguise.

“I am sorry to bother you”, Holmes said politely, “but I am looking for a friend of mine, a Mr. Pasco Meredith. He writes to me often but his handwriting is so terrible that I only know that he lives at a cottage close by an abbey on one of the outlying islands.”

The man nodded.

“It's probably Tresco you'd be wanting then”, he said, his Cornish accent broad indeed. “That's the only other religious place out here.”

“This place seems wonderfully remote”, Holmes observed. “Have you lived here long may I ask?”

“Mary and I we've lived here years”, he said. “We were lucky I suppose; the chap who was having this place done up drowned when he went out too far one day, the place all but ready for him to move into. His brother inherited and wanted a quick sale as he lived up North somewhere.”

Holmes thanked the man and apologised for disturbing him and we left.

“So he died”, I said heavily. 

To my surprise Holmes shook his head and pointed across the island to where the whitewashed buildings of the little abbey sparkled in the noonday sun.

“I think that that man was lying to us”, he said, “especially given the proximity of a place where men sometimes go to either lose or find themselves. An excellent hiding-place where no questions – or at least no difficult questions – tend to be asked. Let us test that theory.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were admitted to the presence of the Father Abbot, a small almost round and bespectacled man in his sixties (I tried really, really hard not to think 'Friar Tuck' but still got an annoyingly sharp look from the resident mind-reader in the vicinity). I could see why this along with places like Lindisfarne and Iona had been set up; the solitude was what some men craved even if I was sure that it would have driven me mad with boredom in next to no time.

“I am here on a somewhat delicate matter”, Holmes began. “I am afraid that I must be direct. Many years ago a man came to your abbey and asked for admission as a brother. I know that it is not the way to question those who seek refuge in a holy place but I must tell you that this man was implicit in two crimes.”

The abbot smiled benevolently. He would have made a good poker player, I thought.

“What crimes may they have been, sir?” he asked.

“The courting and abduction of another man's fiancée”, Holmes said. “More seriously, the subsequent suicide of that man caused by the social disgrace incurred.”

“Neither of those are what a court would consider chargeable offences”, the abbot pointed out.

“I merely require to speak with the brother involved”, Holmes said. “As you say he cannot be brought before a court to be charged in either instance, although as you and I both know he will like all of us one day stand before a higher court that operates on divine justice rather than English law, and I firmly believe that he will be found guilty at that time and pay the appropriate penalty. But there is someone else involved – an innocent young man – and more lives may well be damaged if I do not speak with the man that you have here.”

The abbot weighed his request, then nodded.

“You may talk with Brother Kenver”, he said. “He is in the herbarium, the walled garden that is to the left as you came in.”

Holmes stood and bowed.

“Thank you, Father.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“It reminds me a little of my school in London”, he said as we walked back to the herbarium. “That was run by a religious order; a very strict one.”

“I bet that you were top of your class”, I said.

“Yes.”

I spluttered at his confidence until he smiled at me.

“Everything except art”, he said. “I cannot draw for toffee, as the saying goes. We are here.”

The herbarium was small but well-ordered. A middle-aged monk was resting on a bench outside a small shed, surveying his domain; I thought him in poor condition for his age but I was more alarmed by the fact that Holmes's face had darkened perceptibly.

“Brother Kenver?” my friend asked. 

The monk looked at us suspiciously. 

“Or should I say, _Mr. Milton Carew”,_ Holmes said.

“Do I know you gentlemen?” the monk inquired frostily. 

“I am here on behalf of one Mr. Stuart Billesley”, Holmes said.

There. A definite reaction.

“Should I know that name?” the monk asked.

“Most fathers know their own sons”, Holmes said mildly.

I could see the moment that he gave up the pretence. His shoulders sagged.

“How much do you know?” he asked.

“I know most of it”, Holmes said. “Showing as few morals as your target you wooed and won Miss Alice Olney, despite her being affianced to Lord Tobias Hawke. From the dates you clearly consummated your relationship some time before your flight which, I would conjecture, was brought on by her discovery that she was pregnant. Since young Lord Tobias was very traditional in his beliefs the baby could not be his. Your family hid you until the birth which claimed not only Miss Olney's life but also and much more importantly, that of poor Lord Tobias who could not stand the shame of being cuckolded.”

This may have been a holy place but I really wished that I had brought my gun. Accidents could happen, even out here. God would surely forgive me this one.

“You were in a most curious position”, Holmes went on, the look on his face suggesting that he was entertaining much the same thoughts as I was. “Circumstance had made you immensely rich – you inherited wealth from your late mother – but your family, although they had stood by you for the child's sake, rightly wanted nothing to do with a man with two deaths on his hands. I know that you came here and, suspecting that one day you might be tracked, arranged for the cottage to be rebuilt then disappeared into the abbey. You gave the cottage to a couple who promised to spin a story of your demise should anyone ask, which they did to us earlier today. I have only one question for you. Why a monk?”

The villain smiled sourly. 

“Toby was an ass but he was a good man”, he said. “When he ended himself like that – I nearly lost it. Alice's family took Stuart from me and I was glad - glad because they could raise him right. I had nothing, which was what I deserved. Yes the money - but every time I closed my eyes I could see that boy lying there, bleeding to death because of me. He has haunted me almost every day since and will do so until my dying day.”

I shuddered at the image. The fellow may have been about forty years of age but he looked so much older. Crime had not paid at all for him, and rightly so.

“The monastery was Alice's brother's idea”, he said. “He arranged for a family he knew to move into the refurbished cottage and as you say to tell anyone who asked that they obtained it when the man having it fitted out for him died in an accident. The family would use my money for Stuart and some other charities that I knew Toby had supported, and I would quit the world. Why have you come after me?”

“Because your son wishes to find out the source of his wealth”, Holmes said. 

“You have to stop him!” the man exclaimed.

“You are responsible for the deaths of two people”, Holmes said coldly, “at least one of whom was a damn fine human being without who the world is an infinitely poorer place. Despite your subsequent efforts to make the best of matters I do not _have_ to do anything. However, Mr. Billesley is my client and his interests are paramount in this. You yourself have no interest in his fund?”

The monk shook his head.

“It is run by his family”, he said. “I signed over all control to them. The only say I got was that Alice's sisters had to be seen right – they had no money of their own and she had fretted about them - but they saw to that all right.”

“Then I have certain contacts who will I am sure be able to produce some convincing documents to the effect that you did indeed 'drown' off the coast of this island”, Holmes said coolly. “Watson, it is time for us to leave.”

He strode angrily away and I scuttled after him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The leering Lowen picked us up about an hour later and although I was pleased to see Holmes distracted from his depression, the fact that they conversed in Cornish depressed me. And the dratted fisherman seemed to take far too long to help Homes out of the boat once we returned to Hugh Town. I silently thanked God that he lived way out here and we would never see him again.

 _(Looking back, I should have_ known _that the Fates were taking notes)._

“I do not like it”, Holmes said as we sat in his bacon-serving restaurant that evening. “But I am as I said employed by a client and his interests must come first where possible. Even if his father is to all effects and purposes guilty of two deaths.”

“Morally but not legally”, I pointed out. “You cannot save everyone my friend.”

He looked at me gratefully.

“I am lucky to have you”, he said softly.

I blushed. I was the lucky one.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We sat close together all the way back to London. That was, looking back, the only time that I have known him to be cold rather than his usual furnace-hot. It worried me almost as much as my growing feelings for the man, which..... what a mess!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† No relation to the Welsh Carew (pronounced 'Cary') family of Pembrokeshire; Mr. Milton Carew's ancestors came from just outside Hugh Town which was one reason that he fled there._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	13. Interlude: Tut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. A policeman's lot.....

_[Narration by Sergeant Gawain LeStrade]_

A policeman's lot, so the saying goes, is not often a happy one. When you're attempting to climb the greasy pole of promotion in the Metropolitan Police Service, being of the 'wrong' class doesn't do you any favours. Throw in rivals like that pompous oaf Gregson, and you start to think of all the ways to kill someone without being found out - of which I know more than my share!

I suppose I was lucky at least in my boss Inspector MacDonald, a man who was not so much colour-blind when it came to my background but merely possessed of a hatred for all of Mankind regardless of whatever wrapping it came in (though to be fair as I always am, I did happen to know the reason for that attitude as he was married to it and.... I was back to thinking of disposal methods again). I knew that he would never discriminate against me, and everyone else who worked underneath him knew full well what he would do to anyone who broke his rules, as he had done more than once already. Pretty much unique among those who had ascended the greasy pole faster than was supposed to happen, he was respected by us lower ranks.

I was also fortunate in that my longer-lasting acquaintanceship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes folded into my work and that he on occasion assisted the boss with difficult matters as well as very occasionally offering me advice on one or two of my own cases that.....

Val is tutting at me for some reason. 

All right, he was a great help. Plus it was an added bonus that his past and present landladies could bake the most wonderful cakes and pastries that I may have occasionally sampled on the odd occasion that my calling on him just happened to have coincided with their baking days.....

_Now I am getting a look!_

My better half (who can stop smiling like that!) had only once met 'the boys' as she called Mr. Holmes and his friend Doctor Watson for some reason, but she quickly assured me that 'there was something there', unfortunately with the sort of 'hearts and flowers' look that makes any right-thinking man want to high-tail it to the nearest pub pronto! It probably doesn't speak well of my abilities as a detective that it took me rather longer just to work out what that 'something' was. And to then fervently hope that they would never to provide any details, especially when I was on a full stomach. Although there was always room for cake.

Val really needs to get something for that cough of hers.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	14. Case 29: The Shocking Business At The Tankerville Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. Watson learns, not for the last time, that his so-called 'betters' can and do use people's regard for them to cover up the fulfilment of their basest instincts. A harrowing encounter for both him and Holmes, but one which will introduce several new characters into their lives.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the many advantages of having Holmes as a friend was that it solved one small but critical problem for me, which might otherwise have impaired my medical career. As a doctor who treated some of the cream of 'high society' it was considered only fitting that I should hold membership in at least one of London's top gentlemen's clubs, because the richer people that I treated expected (as in demanded) to be able to find at least one establishment that they deemed 'suitable' on my calling-card. Had I not been able to fulfil that societal nicety I very much doubt that they would have continued to use my offices. Which was all well and good – except that the fees for being a member of these establishments were frankly eye-watering and had I paid them, my already grumbling bank-manager would have had a conniption!

Fortunately my friendship with Holmes solved that problem as his mother had insisted on his having the highest class of membership at each of his six clubs clubs, and at four of them that included the right to associate membership for at least one gentleman friend. Hence I was able to have four illustrious names on my 'Doctor John Watson, M.D.' cards and to talk to my patients about them as if I did not only go to each of them once in a blue moon. 

Had I been more observant back then I might have wondered at my friend agreeing to this as he had little time for such establishments, but I assumed that he had done so to placate his fearsome mother who might otherwise have started reading one of her dreadful stories to him. He hardly ever visited any of them as fas as I know, and I only occasionally accompanied him to Benfield's on a very small number of Thursdays because of they always served some sort of chocolate dessert which was absolute _heaven!_ But we always walked there from the house so despite what some snarky blue-eyed genius was prone to comment about my having two desserts on those days, that did not count. Besides it was chocolate, not dessert.

_One of these days I am going to work out just how I can hear that smirk through a closed door!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was shortly after our return from our 'difficult' Cornish case that I was called out to Hugh, Lord Merioneth, who had collapsed during a game of cards at the Tankerville Club (not one of mine, thankfully as it turned out). This establishment was luxurious even by London club standards, situated on the banks of the River Thames in Chelsea. The doorman had looked at me pityingly and had been openly disbelieving that I was a doctor come to treat someone in _his_ establishment despite my card. Fortunately I was admitted and the nobleman needed little more than some reassurance plus some stomach powders, plus he even paid cash. However the place left a bad impression on me as absolutely everyone in it seemed to be looking down on me, and I was frankly glad to leave it.

I thought nothing more of the matter until two days later when we had a policeman visitor. Incredibly it was _not_ Sergeant LeStrade but a young dark-skinned policeman called Constable David Chapel. (I say incredibly because it was Miss Hellingly's sponge-cake day). Our visitor was clearly anxious for some reason and I wondered why.

“Mr. LeStrade said it was acceptable to approach you, Mr, Holmes sir”, the constable said politely. “It concerns the Tankerville Club; he said that one of his men saw the doctor entering the place yesterday.”

I marvelled at how news got round this mess of a city so fast. 

“I had to treat a patient there”, I said wondering what he was leading up to. “Is there a problem?”

“Mr. LeStrade said he was sure there was something odd there, sirs”, the constable said. 

Holmes looked hard at our guest. He was an unremarkable specimen of humanity apart from his ebony skin, and there had seemed nothing unusual in his last statement. He was certainly among the last people I would ever have associated with somewhere as unpleasantly snooty as that club.

“You yourself have an interest in this place, constable”, Holmes said. “What is it, pray?”

Our visitor blushed.

“The past year three of my neighbours just left without telling anyone, sir”, the young fellow said. “The odd thing, they were nearly all young single men like me. The last one was a mate of a friend of mine; Ben had just turned sixteen and he told me he'd been offered a job at the club. His rooms were all sorted and all but it's not like him; he wouldn't stop seeing his old friends just because he'd moved to the other side of the city. I did ask around the area – you know how rare us black men are in that neck of the woods – and no-one had seen hide nor hair of him.”

I could see that Holmes thought that as strange as I myself did. The idea of somewhere like the Tankerville Club employing a _black_ man – it seemed as likely as Holmes being able to keep our main room tidy!

“Someone is kidnapping black men from the East End?” Holmes said, looking sharply at me for some reason. “To what end?”

“That's the weird thing”, our visitor said scratching his short-cut black curly hair. “When Mr. LeStrade told me about the doctor going there I asked if I might talk to you, Mr. Holmes sir. He thought that might be better than approaching his boss because..... you know.”

I could sympathize with our cake-loving friend over that. I could not imagine it being easy to explain such a nebulous matter to his superior Inspector Fraser Macdonald especially as it involved those weird objects that the latter regarded as utterly incomprehensible, namely other people.

“Is there anything else?” Holmes asked.

“Mr. LeStrade was told by the local lads at Chelsea station that it was something peculiar”, the constable said. “For some reason they aren't allowed to go inside the place even if a crime gets reported there. They have to get permission first.”

“Ah”, Holmes said knowingly. I glared at him.

 _“Please_ explain”, I said not at all testily. He chuckled.

“The Tankerville Club must be the 'peculiar' that exists in West London”, he said. “It is normally a church term but here it refers to a part of England that is not legally England.”

Well that cleared things up - _not!_ He smiled at my obvious annoyance as did our visitor.

“The Tankerville Club was founded in honour of the family of the same name”, Holmes explained. “The current earl, a Mr. Charles Bennet to give him his proper name, is descended from a family who before the Conquest used to hold lands in Tancarville which is in Normandy. At some time in the past, the land where the club stands was made a possession of the family as vassals of someone other than the King of England. Their charter must never have been revoked so therefore it is legally not part of England.”

“A part of Chelsea is French?” I asked, surprised. 

“Maybe”, he said. “Its questionable legal status means that the police have to tread warily, especially given the difficult situation in France just now.”

That was all too true. It was less than a decade since Prussian troops had marched through Paris and the once-mighty French nation utterly humiliated by the new power of Bismarck's Germany, losing the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine to them. The recent British purchase of a large stake in the Suez Canal in an area of the world that Paris had hitherto considered its own had not exactly helped Anglo-French relations, either. 

“You think the nob himself is involved?” the constable asked, before blushing fiercely. “Er, sorry, sirs.”

Holmes smiled at him.

“The earl is a member of the Privy Council and a most honourable gentleman”, he said. “No, whatever is going on at the club that bears his family's name, I am sure that he has no part of it. But he may be important to remedying matters, if they can be remedied. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, constable. I shall look into it. Oh, and do not forget the most important point of your visit.”

Constable Chapel looked confused.

“What, sir?” he asked.

“Calling in on Miss Hellingly on your way out and ask if she has a spare slice of sponge-cake for your sergeant!”

The poor constable blushed again, but I do not think that that particular deduction called for much effort on Holmes's part. Even I could have worked that one out and why was he shaking his head like that? Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Unfortunately it was one of Those Days. Constable Chapel had barely left when we had a second visitor. A far less welcome one.

“Randall”, Holmes said coolly. “To what do we owe the 'pleasure' of this visit?”

His tone clearly implied that 'pleasure' was far from being involved. The lounge-lizard did not even take a seat and stared haughtily down his nose at his younger brother.

“You are making inquiries into the Tankerville Club”, he said. 

“I shall be”, Holmes said.

“You must cease them.”

“Why?”

The sadist in me really enjoyed moments like these. Mr. Randall Holmes was clearly used to being obeyed in everything he demanded of the people around him, and someone not jumping to do what he wanted within sixty seconds if not six was clearly incomprehensible to him. It was like watching a spoilt child trying to comprehend the word 'no'.

“Two of the Cabinet are members of that club”, the pest said, “as well as several Important People. You should not stick your nose in where it is not wanted.”

“I dare say that the criminals that I have helped secure convictions against felt much the same way”, Holmes said coolly. “Try again.”

“It is none of your concern”, his brother said loftily. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Ah but you must be wrong there, my dear brother”, he said. “You would not be here so swiftly if there was not something _highly_ irregular occurring at that establishment. So now.... I am even more curious!”

Mr. Randall Holmes scowled at him, then at me for some reason before huffing and heading for the door.

“Randall!”

I jumped at the sharpness of my friend's voice. The nuisance stopped and looked round at his brother.

“What?” he said irritably.

“You forget, I know you”, Holmes said pointedly. “You will not take any action against Constable Chapel and his friends, or someone may mention to Mother about your last trip to Shepherd's Bush!”

That remark elicited a major scowl and the pest exited rapidly, leaving behind the smell of bad _eau de cologne_. I opened the window to help get rid of it. 

“He would not try anything against you?” I asked worriedly. Holmes shook his head.

“He would like to”, he said. “But he knows that if anything happened to me and it could in any way be traced back to him, then the wrath of God would be as nothing compared to the wrath of Mother!”

I smiled at that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As if you have to ask, our third visitor of the day was Gregson, who 'just happened to be passing'. I wondered if any of the criminals that he collared had better stories than that _and damnation if someone was not shaking his head at me again!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not totally surprised when, the next day, Holmes said that he was going round to visit his mother and father. He generally avoided his family as and where possible and usually spent some days before each visit looking glum and depressed (and usually a further set of days after looking much the same, more if his mother had made him listen to one of her dreadful stories!). This time however the visit came unannounced although I had wondered whether his unwelcome fraternal encounter from the day before may have been behind it. He looked worried enough however, and I decided that it was not my place to ask.

I should have known better.

“You are wondering about my having to go and see Father”, he said over supper that evening.”

“It is family”, I said. “You have obligations, I suppose.”

He looked at me a little warily. He knew full well that while I missed my dear late mother, my father was both gone and (as much as was possible) best forgotten, and I suppose he felt a little guilty that he still had his parents. Even if one of them was the frankly terrifying Lady Aelfrida Holmes. She had, Holmes had confirmed to me, insisted on a full check of both our current and first establishments (along with each of our landladies and all our co-tenants!) by a private investigations agency. He had not said as much but I guessed that she had had me thoroughly checked out as well. I presumed that I had been deemed 'acceptable'; I was sure given her character that I would have swiftly been made aware had I not have been.

“I thought that I would likely need Father's help in resolving this affair at the Tankerville Club”, he said. “He has certain contacts that are quite useful at times like this. He told me that the club is run by one Mr. Simeon Bennett, second cousin to Earl Charles. Mr. Simeon is not a pleasant character by all accounts.”

“A criminal?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“As LeStrade says, cynically if accurately, nobility like him are too wily to do what is actually criminal”, he said sounding rather sorrowful. “No, he skates around the edges of the law but does not fall in.”

“Sounds like he needs a good push!” I said trying to lighten the mood. Holmes stared at me.

“Yes”, he said slowly. “Maybe he does.”

I had the distinct impression that I had said something important, which was inevitably followed by the distinct impression that any chance of my knowing just _what_ was so important was about as remote as the Dog Star. Again, no change there.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Two weeks passed and Holmes marked his twenty-fifth birthday. It was a generally cheerless time; that summer had been the wettest ever on record and the poor weather had continued as we approached autumn. I did not get to spend the day with my friend as his formidable mother had wanted him to accompany her to see a friend down in Devonshire. His hang-dog expression and the telegrams bemoaning his fate were cheering however and I welcomed him back after a two-day absence by doing something that I had known he had long wanted to have done, having his violin-case refurbished. He joked that he was so grateful that he would not torment me my playing although I mostly found his music soothing enough. Except when he was unhappy when it almost took on a life of its own in its utter misery and despair.

Despite his break Holmes did not seem to be doing much as regards the Tankerville Club. I was therefore surprised when shortly after his return we had a visitor, one Mr. Simeon Bennett. He was a tall, balding fellow in his fifties and, like the oleaginous Mr. Randall Holmes, clearly someone used to getting his own way in life by the disdainful manner in which he looked at first me and then our rooms. 

I suppressed a smile. This was going to be interesting.

“They say that you are a private detective”, our visitor said, sounding dubious as to that fact.

“I am”, Holmes said equably. “In what capacity may I be of service, sir?”

There was the faintest hint of our visitor's own disdain in my friend's tone and from his surprised expression Mr. Bennett was clearly unused to getting his own attitude thrown back at him. He scowled but continued.

“I am being followed”, he said. “I went to the police, but apparently I must be attacked and done to death first before they will lift a finger to help! So I came to you.”

“Has your life been threatened?” Holmes asked.

“No”, the man admitted, “but there is a man following me wherever I go.”

“Can you describe this 'man'?” Holmes asked.

“It is a different darkie every time”, our visitor said. “They all look alike to me.”

I winced inwardly. The man had done himself no favours at all with that slur, in the eyes of us both.

“So a different person is following you each time and the only connection is that they are a.... the colour of their skin?” Holmes asked. “It does not exactly sound threatening, sir. In a city of a million or more people the odds on someone of that skin colour being in the same areas as yourself are quite high.”

“Maybe if I lived in the East End perhaps”, our visitor said. “But I can tell you the number of darkies around Chelsea is next to nil. Yet suddenly they are all after me!”

Holmes frowned.

“Have you perchance done something that might warrant such a sudden interest?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

There had been the briefest of pauses before he had answered, but it was definitely there. Holmes shook his head and tutted disapprovingly.

“I serve clients from all levels of society”, he said, “but the one thing I expect from them is absolute honesty. You would not call on the services of Watson here, tell him only half your symptoms and then expect an accurate diagnosis. Unless you are completely honest with me sir, you are wasting my time as well as your own.”

“I can see that!” our visitor said testily. “You have not heard the last of this, Mr. Holmes!”

With a curl of the lip he was gone. I stared after him, worried.

“Can he do anything against you?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“He is all bluster”, he said. “He is only in charge of the Club because his noble cousin, in a rare moment of ill-judgement, wanted to give him something to do. His timing today was unfortunate as I do not quite have everything in place to remedy matters. I shall also have to call on the offices of Mr. Kuznetsov as only he can obtain what I need.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“A body!”

I blinked in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes looked even more tired than usual over breakfast that morning and I did not hesitate before forking over all my rashers of bacon onto his plate. The look of undying gratitude that I received in return made me feel so mushy that it was frankly a surprise I did not drip right off the chair!

“Are you going into the surgery today?” he asked.

“I am not scheduled to”, I said, “although I may get a call if they are short-handed. Why?”

“I am expecting someone here at around mid-day”, he said. He seemed uneasy, which unnerved me. “I would be grateful if you could be here to treat him.”

“Do you know what is wrong with him?” I asked. 

He thought for a moment before answering.

“Only that he will be in exceptionally poor physical condition”, he said. “I believe that his mental needs may match or even outweigh his physical ones, but the latter can be treated more immediately. I have secured a place for him to go to recover from the former but he will need some attention today.”

“I shall be here when he comes”, I promised. “I shall go round to the surgery to see if they want me to do anything this morning, and tell them that I shall be unavailable after midday.”

He smiled that grateful smile at me again and I nearly let him have the rest of my breakfast as well!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

My patient arrived later than expected and it was not until just after two o' clock that there was a knock at the door. Holmes went to open it and outside stood two men, a tall black man and a shorter white one. Holmes handed a coin to the latter who thanked him and left, then ushered the former into the room. It was only when he came into the light of the window that I saw his true state.

I nearly retched. Little wonder that Holmes had had a drink ready right next to me. I downed it in one go.

“This is Mr. Benjamin Hope”, Holmes said quietly. “Do what you can for him, doctor. LeStrade and Constable Chapel will be here in about an hour or so.”

I fought down my nausea and ushered the man over to the screen, bidding him disrobe. Even clothed it was clear that he had suffered extensive physical torture. While he was getting ready I downed a second drink that Holmes had had provided and noted that he was already pouring me a third. My hands were still shaking but I pulled myself together and began.

I shall not disturb the reader by graphically describing the poor fellow's broken body, save to say that he must have been subjected to almost every physical abuse possible. How his frame, which in normal times must have been quite impressive, had not broken under such stress I did not know. Holmes had pointedly absented himself in his room but he had left the door open so that we both knew that he was there; I noted how my patient jumped at any sudden noise from the street and was shuddering throughout my examination of him. I was able to cleanse and make a start on healing his wounds but he would indeed require many weeks away from civilization – a 'civilization' that had done this to him! - to even begin to recover from his ordeal. What chilled me almost as much as his physical condition was the utter lifelessness in his eyes, as if he no longer cared about life.

The time passed much quicker that I thought and I was applying cream to some minor cuts on the man's face when there was a second knock at the door, and LeStrade appeared with Constable Chapel. The latter blundered into the room and saw his friend's broken body.

I hope never again to see two grown men cry.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“How did you manage it?” I asked Holmes as he, I and LeStrade drove in a cab down to the Chelsea. Constable Chapel had taken Mr. Hope to the hospital that he had arranged for him, out in the Essex countryside near the Epping Forest where the latter would have the time that he needed to recover.

“It seemed clear that for some reason someone at the Tankerville Club was abducting young, single black men”, Holmes said. “I told Mr. Kuznetsov that I needed Mr. Hope to be removed from the club for a case that I was working on, reasoning that Mr. Simeon Bennett, while he himself eschewed any open criminality, would know full well whom not to annoy. He likely reasoned that Mr. Hope had committed some _faux pas_ that had upset the crime lord in some way and would soon be taking a terminal dip in the Thames. Instead of which he and all his friends will soon be recovering as much as they can recover from their terrible ordeals.”

“Friends?” LeStrade asked. Holmes nodded, grim-faced.

“I am afraid that it is not just Constable Chapel's road”, he said darkly. “The Tankerville Club has in the past two years extracted at least sixteen black men from the East End, for the sole purpose of torturing and abusing them.”

“But why?” I asked mystified. “What could have driven them to such a foul act?”

“You are forgetting that for some of these so-called men, the slave trade was abolished in their living memory”, Holmes said. “Sadly, as we see from many Mohammedan countries around the world, people there still see the act of demeaning and abusing those of a different skin complexion as some sort of God-given right. But for the vile scum at the Tankerville Club, that 'right' ends right here!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I do not think that I have seen as many policemen on one street since the relatively modest celebrations some two years back to mark Her Majesty's fortieth year on the throne. The unpleasant doorman at the Club was brushed aside and the whole matter was over in minutes. I found myself with Holmes, LeStrade, a dark-skinned fellow (suited and in very good condition) and a very angry Mr. Simeon Bennett in the latter's plush offices.

“This is an invasion of my rights!” Mr. Bennett stormed. “The English police service have no right to enter foreign soil! I shall be communicating with the French government over this!”

Holmes sighed.

“It is a most fortunate thing that you are as ignorant historically as you are ideologically”, he sighed. “The French government has no jurisdiction here. Given the somewhat irregular circumstances they were informed earlier today of the planned sequence of events and they have given their consent to our actions. Not that we needed it, but it was polite to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Bennet demanded.

“Well”, Holmes said, “the 'peculiar' status of the land on which this club stands was confirmed in a charter issued by King Henry the Sixth – or at least his guardians – in the year 1434.”

“So?”

“So”, Holmes said patiently as if he were instructing a slow schoolboy, “the wording of the charter states that the land becomes the property not of the King of France but the titular Duke of Normandy. At that moment in history Normandy had - briefly as it turned out - been returned to English rule. As we all know that title is current held by the queen as ruler of the bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey. She has graciously granted her permission for your cousin the earl to sell this land and to use the money for somewhat more humane causes. You and Mr. Blake here will shortly be enjoying somewhat less salubrious accommodation courtesy of the local gaol.”

“We did nothing wrong”, the black man scowled.

“Deliberately luring away innocent young black men so that you could abuse them in this foul way?” Holmes asked dryly.

“Do you think an English court would believe the word of a black man over a white one, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Blake sneered.

Holmes sat back and smiled. I knew that look. 

“Does the name 'Mr. Joseph Lake' ring any bells, gentlemen?”

LeStrade and I both looked as confused as we felt, but Mr. Blake and Mr. Bennett looked as if they had been pole-axed. Holmes turned to us.

“As Mr. Blake so rightly says, proof is a difficult thing”, he said. “So for the past couple of weeks the Tankerville Club has enjoyed the free services of a budding young photographer who had been providing its members with pictorial evidence of their 'achievements' - and for every photograph _there is a negative!”_

Mr. Blake moved to strike my friend but LeStrade moved faster than I would have thought possible with his bulk and floored the fellow with a single punch to the jaw.

“That felt good!” he said. “Even if I may have broken a few bones.”

“Doctor?” Holmes smiled.

“I will not stand trial in a court!” Mr. Bennet protested. “I have friends, Mr. Holmes.”

My friend turned on him. His face was suddenly dark with anger.

“For what you and your partner in crime did, there will be justice indeed”, he said. “As you are both about to find out!”

Now what did he mean by that?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Bennett was right; he and Mr. Blake did not stand trial in a court. Not because of their connections but because they made one more final, fatal decision. Holmes warned them that anything other than a guilty plea would lead to the most unpleasant repercussions but they still went to their lawyers in an attempt to avoid justice. On the way back from their first meeting they were both picked up and taken to the streets around Constable Chapel's house, from where they had taken all those young men. The young men's relatives were waiting for them, a group of over thirty very angry men and women.

Two bodies were hauled out of the Thames the following day. They were barely recognizable.

On a happier note I am pleased to say that the men rescued from the Tankerville Club, which the earl did indeed close down, all made full recoveries. Indeed some of them were to later be instrumental in further cases of ours in various capacities. One in particular.... but I am getting ahead of myself. The government was rocked by the resignations of two of its members but as these were generally disliked it was able to ride out the storm, while several other people in high society decided that a new life in foreign climes was very desirable – as of immediately!

Not of course that I ever read the social pages. _And someone had better bloody well not smirk!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	15. Case 30: The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. Watson travels with Holmes to Scotland to help out a family friend of the great detective. An ancient curse turns out to have more staying power than expected, the first seer to enter the doctor's life duly sees it coming... and over seventy people die a cold and terrible death.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

A curious fact; because many people among those who wanted ever more of my friend's doings from his early and mostly undocumented years this was only the second case to be published in the timeline of the original stories, yet is now way down the list at number thirty.

A certain personage in the room with me has just made a most uncalled for remark about showing his doings. He knows full well that I did not mean it in that way! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I did not like Scotland.

It was not xenophobic as such but this was the country that had taken Stevie from me, and although I was half-Scottish through my dear mother I had always thought of myself as entirely English. So a case that took us to 'North Britain' – to the North-East Fifeshire village of Musgrave, to be exact – was not that welcome, even if it did involve cuckoldry, an ancient curse, a seer – and a tragic, if deserved ending.

_Plus the small matter of over seventy deaths!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Watson”, my friend said across the breakfast table one cold December morning, “you would describe yourself as a man of equable temperament, would you not?”

“Of course”, I said firmly. “I am a doctor. I have to be.”

Far too late the alarm bells started ringing. I looked at my friend to see a knowing look on those chiselled features.

“What?” I asked suspiciously, wondering what sort of trap I had just talked myself into. He smiled his most beatific smile at me and I knew that whatever he was going to ask of me, the answer would be in the affirmative. Honestly, put a collar on me and call me Rover!

“I was wondering how you would feel about spending Christmas north of the Border”, he said.

“In Scotland?” I asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“I have a case that involves travelling to the ancient Kingdom of Fife†”, he explained. “The village of Musgrave in the north-east part of the county, to be exact. Since your brother is studying at Edinburgh I could ask that the two of you both be invited so that you could spend some time with him.”

I was I have to admit more than a little touched. Like my own medical one Stevie's legal course consisted of four years mixed lectures and practice, then three years work experience before he got his own set of letters after is name. He was therefore technically still at the university in Edinburgh although working for the company which had sent him down to seek help over the Fountain-Pen Case, and although he wrote (infrequently) we had not seen each other since that visit, the generosity of Holmes's father having extended to renting him a small apartment in the capital. 

“That would be very.... pleasant”, I admitted trying to blink back an unaccountable wetness at the back of my eyes (I really had to have words with our landlady about the maids dusting the room more thoroughly). “Can you tell me anything about the case?”

“I am not even sure that there is a case”, he admitted. “It may be nothing at all. But Ceawlin Musgrave is an old family friend, or at least his father Edwin was.”

“Saxon names that far north”, I observed.

“As you yourself told me, Edinburgh was once an English town”, he said. “If you can get the time off we could leave on the evening of the twenty-third. I thought that we could travel up by the night sleeper and alight at Stirling so that your brother can meet us there rather than subject him to having to a choppy crossing of the Firth of Forth. Fortunately the North British Railway line to Dundee passes through Musgrave Halt and all trains have to stop there on request. With the opening last year of the Tay Bridge but a few miles away, the area is quite accessible.”

I looked at him anxiously. Had he not been sleeping again?

“Four hours”, he muttered.

“It is creepy when you do that!” I grumbled.

He grinned.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There were at that time two railway routes between London and Scotland, known colloquially as the West Coast (then the London & North Western and Caledonian Railway Companies, later the London, Midland & Scottish), and the East Coast (then the Great Northern, North Eastern and North British Railway Companies, later the London & North Eastern). The recently-opened third route, the Midland and North British line via Leeds and Carlisle, was both longer and more difficult, and was never a serious competitor. The eastern route was the faster of the main ones as far as Edinburgh but passengers wishing to travel to points further north then had to endure two unpleasant sea-crossings of the Firths of Forth and Tay. This had led to the North British Railway looking to bridge these great divides – approximately 1½ and 2 miles respectively – and a new bridge had last year been opened across the Tay having been designed by the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch. He had created something that from the pictures I had seen of it most definitely put function before aesthetics, but I suppose that it served its purpose and he was now working on a design for the Forth Bridge.

It still took the best part of a whole day to get from London to Edinburgh via either route so I was relieved that Holmes had booked a sleeper compartment for our great trip to the North. He had also very generously purchased Stevie's ticket from Edinburgh so the giraffe would be waiting for us when we reached Stirling. We duly arrived at Euston Station and found that we had adjoining compartments connected by a door, so after I was settled in I joined my friend, taking the chair while he sat cross-legged on his bed and took out his pipe. As I said he never smoked but he always kept a spare barley-sugar in the bowl which he now took out and sucked happily.

“Tell me about the case”, I said.

He sat back on his bed and stretched out his long legs. It struck me that I rarely saw him this relaxed; he was usually tense over some case or other. This look was good on him and he looked almost beau.....

I stopped that train of thought before it got to the end of the platform!

“Despite their name the Musgraves are by descent as Scottish as they come”, he began (mercifully the mind-reading thing must have been switched off for once). “An ancestor was fortunate enough to get in with one of the early Stuarts so when the latter came to the Scottish and later the English thrones they 'rode their coat-tails' so to speak. The current lord is Ceawlin; as I explained his father Edwin was a friend of my own father. Ceawlin and I were at school together although he was in the year ahead of mine.”

“His father died young, then?” I asked.

“A hunting accident”, he said. “He had three sons; Ceawlin, Constantine and Cynric. There was some concern because Constantine was a wayward young thing whom was suspected of being mentally unstable, but he solved that problem rather neatly by drinking himself to death before he was sixteen. Two years ago Ceawlin married and now has a son, Kenneth. That is partly what this is all about.”

“The boy is not in any danger?” I asked.

“I do not know”, he said, frowning. “It is all quite bizarre. The family has an ancient ritual that on the first birthday of a new heir the father must go down to the cross in the village churchyard and spend the night giving thanks. Even in this day and age childhood is a dangerous time.”

“Your friend does not want to do this?”

“He does not really believe in superstition”, he said. “The Musgraves have always been of determined if not pig-headed stock and it is appropriate that they live in 'The Hard Place'.”

“The what?” I asked, surprised.

“Their ancestral home”, Holmes explained. “Originally it was on the other side of the hill from the village and close to the coast where a road or hard ran along the foreshore, hence the name. An ancestor took the opportunity of it being badly damaged in a storm to rebuild in a more sheltered and dare I say a more sensible spot, but they kept the name.”

“I see.”

“Ceawlin's wife is convinced that it is all mumbo-jumbo and that he would be better ignoring the whole thing. But many think he would be wiser to stick with tradition.”

“So he is torn”, I said. 

“Yes. I suppose that we had better turn in so we are fresh when we arrive in Stirling and meet your brother.”

I smiled and left him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we alighted at Stirling and met Stevie outside the platform entrance, our onward train being in another hour's time. He again thanked Holmes for his assistance over the Fountain-Pen Case and to my _chagrin_ the two were soon chatting away. My brother even asked if I had any (more) annoying habits and Holmes promised to send him detail by telegram.

Several telegrams! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

'The Hard Place' was, I quickly decided, just like the Scottish weather - damp and depressing. And most of the people in it were strange!

Ceawlin Musgrave was the only one I could really take to, although Fate had not been kind to him in granting him the family nose which stuck out prodigiously (Holmes, out of his line of sight, smirked at my barely constrained reaction the bastard!). The lord of the manor introduced us to his wife and infant son, the latter's nose fortunately not yet showing any tendencies towards greatness. Lady Alison Musgrave was quiet and I thought more than a little secretive. She was short, dark and almost ethereal, as if she were not really there. 

Also in the house was her unmarried sister Miss Monica MacLeish who eyed Holmes up with great interest. It always puzzled me as to why ladies were drawn to his unkempt appearance but whatever it was, it worked for him. I did not like the way that Miss MacLeish was standing far too close to my friend but I said nothing. I did not wish for a repeat of the embarrassment that I had felt in Huntingdonshire!

Yes, all right, _and_ Cornwall. No need to go on about it!

There was a full compliment of staff but the only one to draw my notice was the steward, a Mr. John Sweeney. Despite the name he was only a third cousin once removed to the two ladies. He was wiry, dark-haired, round-faced and (I thought) the archetypal Celt who looked at his Sassenach visitors with barely-concealed disgust. I thought to myself that he was probably still resentful over the 1707 Act of Union. His sort usually were!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had expected Christmas morning to be taken up with opening young Kenneth's presents and was surprised that this was not the case. Our host saw my confusion. 

“It is his first birthday tomorrow”, he explained, “so we decided that this year, as he it too young to understand it we would have one big day of presents.”

“Is that the night you are expected to go to the Cross?” I asked. He reddened.

“Yes”, he said. “Alison thinks that I should not go, and I am inclined to agree with her. She says that in this day and age we should be past such superstition.”

“I would venture that many here disagree with that”, Holmes said. Musgrave looked surprised but nodded. 

“Yes”, he said. “Sweeney thinks that I am a fool who does not want to face a night in the cold and wet to save his own son. Though he is too polite to say it out loud.”

 _Barely_ , I thought.

“Does your sister-in-law have an opinion?” Holmes asked looking at me pointedly for some reason.

I was surprised at the question. Had Holmes noticed the way that Miss MacLeish had been looking at him the previous evening? I had come away from talking with Stevie to find that female far too close to my friend and I had immediately felt anxious. He was a young and rich single man and she was, I supposed, passably good-looking in a certain light, perhaps. But the thought still made me feel a little nauseous.

“She has said nothing on the matter”, Musgrave said.

I saw Stevie staggering down the long staircase inevitably playing with his hair and smiled at how half-asleep he looked. I waited for him and we went into breakfast together.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Lord's day passed quietly and pleasantly enough, although I could detect a growing unease amongst some in the house as to Mr. Musgrave's decision, stated firmly over luncheon, that he would not be going to the Cross the following night. I took Stevie out for a long walk that afternoon to escape the tension though when we came back it was to the scene of Miss MacLeish trying to engage Holmes in conversation in the library, albeit with little success. I felt strangely pleased at that.

The calm was broken at dinner that evening. Miss MacLeish had not come down from her room and after waiting a while we sat down without her. We, were just about to start when there was a loud scream from upstairs. We all raced out of the room, Holmes and Mr. Sweeney in the lead, and we must have reached her room less than a minute after the scream. Musgrave took the three of us aside and promised to 'explain later' before heading back upstairs. We went back to our meal.

After some time our host and Mr. Sweeney joined us. 

“Is Miss MacLeish all right?” I asked politely.

“The girl's fey!” Mr. Sweeney grumbled. I did not get his meaning but Mr. Musgrave apparently did.

“He means that she has the Sight”, he said. Mr. Sweeney looked across at his employer and scowled.

“Aye!” he said sourly. _“She_ has, if no-one else round here!”

He got up and stomped out, much to my surprise. Mr. Musgrave sighed.

“My sister-in-law has psychic premonitions”, he explained. “Tonight she told us and I quote, 'Death would strike the Kingdom before three days were out'.”

“Folly!” I scoffed. He looked at me curiously.

“Do your remember the murder of Julia Martha Thomas, earlier this year?” he asked quietly.

I did. It had been in all the papers that the maid of the lady in question, one Kate Webster, had murdered her mistress then disposed of the body even masquerading as her for a time before disappearing back to Ireland. She had however been found out and later hung.

“My sister-in-law went to the police on the day before the murder and told them that a crime would take place on that very street”, Mr. Musgrave said. “I think because it took place in the town that matched her middle name, Barnes, they dismissed it as a joke. But she was right.”

“So will you go to the Cross after all?” I asked tentatively.

He seemed to think for a moment before straightening up.

“No”, he said firmly. “Alison is right. In this day and age we need to be getting beyond such nonsense!”

“Musgrave?”

My host jumped and spun round. Holmes was standing directly behind him.

“May I have a word in private?” my friend asked. 

Our host looked at him curiously but nodded and allowed himself to be led away. I stared after them both, wondering.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“What was all that about earlier?” I asked as we sat in the library after dinner. Fortunately Miss MacLeish had apparently tired of Holmes's obvious lack of interest and had instead focussed her attentions on poor Stevie which had made dinner interesting. I had not known the human face could achieve that shade of red. I wondered if I might accidentally slip her his address in Edinburgh....

“I was recommending a course of action to our genial host”, Holmes said shaking his head for some reason. “I think that he will follow it; at least I hope that he will. For his own sake.”

“You think that there is something in this ritual thing?” I asked dubiously. 

His reply surprised me.

“I am certain of it.”

“You cannot believe in some old curse!” I scoffed.

“Miss MacLeish expects Death to visit this area very soon”, Holmes said flatly. “I fear that she may well be right.”

“And what makes you think that?” I asked.

“A number of factors”, he said evasively. “Primarily young Kenneth Musgrave.”

I was about to demand an explanation but at that moment Stevie burst into the library and all but ran over to sit (hide) beside us. I could hear Miss MacLeish calling for him from the corridor outside and I chuckled at him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The twenty-seventh started quietly. Everyone knew that Mr. Musgrave had broken the ritual by not attending at the Cross the previous night and I could sense a growing sense of tension, particularly from some of the servants. The scowl on Mr. Sweeney's face was if possible even deeper.

I took Stevie out for another long walk and managed to extract from him that he was seeing a fellow student at the University, a blonde girl called Miss Henrietta Leigh whom he described as 'sassy'. 

“Is she pretty, this Miss Leigh?” I teased.

“Stunning”, he said, scowling at my words. “I am surprised she would even look at someone like me.”

“Maybe she likes to _rise_ to a challenge?” I suggested with a smile. “Or has a decent step-ladder.”

“Well, I am not the one already living with someone”, he bit back.

“In case you did not notice”, I said not at all haughtily, “Holmes is one of those things called a Man. M-A-N.”

“Yet you stayed with him when you lost your first place”, he pointed out. “What is it, three years now?”

“You know that I could never have afforded anywhere decent on my own”, I said. “Doctors are paid both poorly and irregularly despite the good work that we do. If it were not for Holmes I would living in some rat-infested place in St. Pancras, which is not what I need after a hard day tending to the capital's ills.”

“Sherlock and Johnnie, sitting in a tree....”

I gave him such a look! As if!

No, I did not mention Huntingdonshire. 

Or Cornwall. 

Because!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We arrived back to find the trap waiting outside and a footman loading a suitcase into it. Mrs. Musgrave was inside it and talked briefly to her husband before it drew away.

“Alison has had a letter from an old friend down in Stirling who has had to go into hospital”, Mr. Musgrave explained. “She wants to visit her today before coming back here for the New Year.”

He exchanged what seemed to be a meaningful look with Holmes but neither man said anything and we all hurried inside to escape the light rain that had just begun to fall.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day the rain intensified and a storm seemed to be blowing in from the North Sea. House and village lay behind a small hill just two miles south of Mr. Bouch's new bridge so we were protected from some of the weather's fury if not all. Holmes, Stevie and I spent the day reading, the only event being a telegram from Mrs. Musgrave to note her safe arrival at her friend's house.

I noted with amusement how Stevie inserted himself between Holmes and myself at dinner, presumably in an attempt to evade the attentions of Miss MacLeish. She was, I grudgingly conceded, an attractive enough person and I might even admit to being slightly offended that I had not been targeted by her as of yet. Mr. Musgrave covered a yawn from the head of the table.

“I feel tired after my walk earlier”, he said. “I think I shall take a nap for an hour or two. Sweeney, could you please ask Mrs. Holland to send me up a glass of warm milk?”

“Of course, sir”, his steward nodded. 

They both left the table in different directions.

“I shall turn in early”, Miss MacLeish said. “It looks like being a bad one tonight.”

For some reason I thought that her words had a hidden meaning. A thought which most horribly turned out to be all too accurate.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At about a quarter to seven I was sat in my room when I heard a knock at the door. 

“Enter!” I called out.

To my surprise it was Holmes. He looked very anxious.

“Come Watson!” he said imperiously. “The game's afoot!”

He disappeared before I could question him further and I scrambled to follow him down the stairs to the library where I found a worried-looking Mr. Musgrave being handed a stiff drink by the butler. Not his first, I judged from his shaking hand. Our host downed the whole glass and looked hard at Holmes.

“You were right!” he ground out. “By God, I so hoped that you were not!”

My friend bowed his head.

“I am sorry”, he said. “I wish that it could have been otherwise.”

“What is going on?” I asked in confusion. Holmes turned to me.

“About half an hour ago Mr. Sweeney attempted to murder his employer.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Tell him!” Mr. Musgrave ground out. “Why not? It will be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns soon enough!”

“Mr. Sweeney has been conducting an affair with his cousin Mrs. Musgrave”, Holmes explained. “Tonight he went to his master's room in an attempt to shoot him.”

“But we would have heard something!” I objected.

The storm outside chose that moment to do an obliging roll of thunder and Holmes smiled thinly.

“He merely waited until that”, he said. 

“But why did Mr. Musgrave not hear him come in?” I said turning to our host. “You cannot have been fast asleep?”

“Mr. Sweeney drugged the milk that he took up for him”, Holmes explained. “I presume that you poured it away?”

Mr. Musgrave nodded.

“Your friend advised me to sleep in another room and he made a mound under the bedclothes to look like me”, he explained, reaching for another brandy. He looked at Holmes. “When he realized that he had been found out, he fled the house.”

Holmes nodded.

“He had a horse ready and rode off down the road to the station”, he said. “He is probably in Dundee by now.”

“Why Dundee?” I asked curiously. “Surely if he is fleeing the country he would go to London?”

“You underestimate the power of our great nation”, Holmes reminded me. “In this day and age the only safe place he could run to would be a country that we are hostile towards and which would not willingly hand him over. I would hazard a guess that there is a ship leaving Dundee docks tomorrow bound for Archangel or St. Petersburg. The attempt coincided with a train crossing the bridge; he would have arranged to meet his co-conspirator off that train, either to tell her of his success or to flee with her.”

“But how could you have known?” I asked. 

“Mr. Musgrave told me.”

Our host looked up in surprise.

“Not directly”, Holmes admitted, “but ever since my arrival in your house my lord I have observed how you do not react to young Kenneth the way most fathers would to their first-born son, especially to such an estate as this. You had suspected your wife of infidelity for some time, had you not?”

The nobleman nodded. I could see how much the subject pained him.

“I did”, he said sadly, “though I never thought it to have been with her own cousin. And now she is gone.”

“Indeed”, Holmes said.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Observers of the date at this point in this story will probably be able to guess the tragic and terrible outcome. Mrs. Musgrave was indeed gone, but not to Russia. Holmes had been right that Mr. Sweeney had arranged to meet his cousin on her train into Musgrave Halt after the attempt on her husband's life, so that if it went wrong at least they could escape together from Dundee across the silvery Tay. It was subsequently discovered that a large number of bonds had gone missing from Mr. Musgrave's safe to which only he and his steward had access. Clearly the two had indeed planned to sail to Russia in order to start a new life together.

December the twenty-eighth, eighteen hundred and seventy-nine was of course the night that the railway bridge across the River Tay collapsed, sending a train of over seventy passengers to a cold death in the icy waters far below....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We took a train back via Stirling to Edinburgh and I spent a pleasant day with Stevie before rejoining Holmes and taking the night sleeper back to London. Returning through the ever-present traffic to Cramer Street we finally made the blessed peace and quiet of our rooms, and I collapsed gratefully into a fireside chair while Holmes opened the mail. It took some time for me to notice that he was unusually silent, even for him.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He looked strangely at me and held out a letter.

“This is from the 'Strand' magazine”, he said, sounding vaguely amused. “Apparently you informed them that you and some friend of yours go round solving crimes and they would like to know if you would send them a story about your – and maybe even their – adventures to be serialized for their readers.”

I blushed bright red. Ever since our meeting with the late Miss Sewell I had been putting together the notes for the possible writing up some of our adventures together, but I had said nothing to my friend. Most disobligingly the floor declined to open up and swallow me whole. 

“I.... uh, I swear... that is, I never.....” 

He chuckled.

“I am sure that your doctor's discretion would never lead you to divulge inappropriate details”, he said with a smile. “If you wish to write up one of the cases that we have undertaken then by all means do so.”

“You would not mind?” I asked, surprised.

“There are some cases for which publication would of course be inadvisable”, he said. “Then there are others where details might have to be amended; I am sure you can easily identify both sorts. But yes, provided you ask me first about which stories you wish to publish and that I see the finished work before it goes to the publisher, then I see no problem with it.”

“The 'Gloria Scott'?” I asked. “Our first case?”

“Provided you do not reveal what happened with the diamonds”, he said.

“Deal!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The fallout from the Musgrave case was rather more than I might have expected, let alone the collapse of the bridge and the (deserved) deaths of the plotters. I do not think that poor Ceawlin Musgrave ever really recovered from his wife's perfidy and the death of young Kenneth in a scarlet fever outbreak two years later was the final straw. He resigned his title to his brother Cynric and left to start a new life in South Africa.

Two weeks before his departure Mr. Cynric Musgrave had become engaged. To one Miss Monica MacLeish....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: The subsequent inquiry into the Tay Bridge Disaster almost wholly blamed the designer, the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch. He was ruined by the calamity and died soon after, a broken man. In my humble opinion the North British Railway Company, who had so frequently exceeded the speed limit on the bridge that Dundonians would no longer use northbound trains because they ran so fast down the steep northern side of the bridge, was at least equally culpable. This calamity shook people's faith in Mankind being able to overcome nature, but was of course supplanted in the memories of most people by the even greater disaster that befell a famous ocean liner some thirty-three years later.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† Despite the name Fife has never been an independent kingdom. The term comes from the fact that it lies between the Firths of Tay (north of which is the traditional Scots capital where kings were enthroned at Scone) and Forth (south of which is the modern capital Edinburgh). Fife's fertile lands, rich hunting grounds and relative isolation made it a royal base, and Falkland Palace was built there in the thirteenth century._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	16. Case 31: The Adventure Of The Poison Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. The power of the press is an important balancing force in modern society, but like all powers it can be abused. And a certain consulting detective is the second gentleman at a certain house in Baker Street to make a rather unwelcome discovery.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

A few months back I had solved a trifling matter for Campbell, the overly large and annoyingly smug stepbrother who just happened to own that chain of molly-houses (or as he sometimes called them, London Debating Societies!), as well as providing my mother with inspiration for her stories because he was a bastard of the first order! The details were insignificant to the point of tedium but there was one important thing that arose out of it as it led into this small case. 

After the disgusting case of the Tankerville Club and the vile treatment of those poor black men, the eighteen 'freed' victims had been dispatched to a quiet place in the Essex countryside so that they might recuperate (I must give Lord Tankerville due credit here, for on finding out what had been going on in his name he insisted on paying for the stays of all the victims there for as long as it took, which in some cases was nearly a year). All the men made full recoveries and one of them, a slight and almost inconsequential fellow called Mr. Alan Buxted who despite then being only twenty-one years of age was actually the oldest one rescued, asked if he could work at Campbell's house. Although my hulk of a stepbrother made more than two of him I could see when they came seeking my help that despite the thirteen-year age gap there was something between them and wished them well for the future. Campbell had smiled, saying that one day I would see the one with whom I wished to spend the rest of my life with and, like him, I would just _know._ I had rolled my eyes at him and had dismissed the idea; for all his life choices my stepbrother had always been too much of a romantic. Although it was good to see him happy with someone of his own.

It was only two days after our return from Scotland that I came back to Cramer Street to find Watson working at his manuscript for the 'Gloria Scott' case. He had looked up at me from his sheaf of papers and smiled. And my heart had sank like a stone.

Campbell had been right, damn the fellow. I just _knew!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was obviously quite impossible that there could ever be anything between Watson and myself. For one thing we were both men. For another, we were still both men. Also he was far more attractive that I could ever hope to be, and had the prospects of a highly successful and lucrative career once he had become fully established in his profession. I was a vagabond, a man destined to serve others and my city but never to have anything for myself, and I had been long resigned that that was to be my fate in this life. Plus there was the not inconsiderable factor that despite the fortuitous friendship of Mr. Kuznetsov I was likely to attract the attentions of some very undesirable people sooner rather than later, of the sort who would target anyone close to me without mercy. I could not risk exposing the man that I.... admired to such danger. It was perhaps fortunate therefore that a case came my way shortly after this revelation and I was able to divert my energies into it rather than fretting over what I could never have, and would never deserve to have.

Watson's ridiculously tall brother was wrong. There was more than one occupant of this house a long way up a river in north-east Africa when it came to those things called Feelings.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Ironically it was one of Campbell's 'boys' who brought us this case. I do not know why he called them that as they were most definitely all men and he refused to employ anyone who could not provide full proof of their being eighteen unlike far too many such establishments. Indeed I had put him in touch with one of my contacts who was a skilled forger and could detect the occasional forged birth certificate that some boys tried to put past my stepbrother.

This 'boy' was a handsome strawberry-blond fellow in his mid-twenties called Mr. Brendon Drummond, one of those strange young men who always looked as if they were one meal away from starvation (although both our past and present landladies had apparently said much the same about me to Watson!), and with clothes that he did not so much wear as rather look lost in. When he introduced himself I could see Watson's look of utter incredulity - he has never been good at concealing his emotions - as to what this fellow had that made other men... you know. 

Mr. Drummond's 'secret' was, I knew from a stepbrother for whom keeping things to himself was something that only affected other people, two-fold. First, he was one of the merriest and happiest people I had ever met; he was nearly always smiling despite life's slings and arrows, and Campbell told me that many of his clients found his cheeriness infectious especially if they had come to the house feeling down. And second.... well, perhaps later I might 'accidentally' leave out Campbell's catalogue in which Mr. Drummond was listed as 'Foot-Long Finn' where Watson could... no, that would be cruel. 

Probably cruel.

“Mr. Campbell said it was all right to come and see you, sirs”, Mr. Drummond said politely (his accent was a curious one as he had had a Scottish father and an Australian mother, but it was not unpleasant). “Something rather strange happened yesterday and what with today's paper I thought it meet to approach you, and ask if you might look into it for me.”

“Is there anything unusual in the 'Times', Watson?” I asked.

“Just this terrible fog, the forthcoming election and that coal-mine explosion in Staffordshire”, he said. “Hardly news, but Malcolm Duke of Cromartyshire† is involved in some scandal or other, again. Typical of the rogue; he never could keep it in his trousers.”

“The duke is my father”, Mr. Drummond said calmly.

Watson went pale at that. I have to admit that the news surprised even me; I knew that Malcolm Duke of Cromartyshire lived partly in London and was often being criticized for the poor management of his Scottish estates in the county that he took his title from, which lay in the Far North of Scotland. The newspaper's criticism was more likely than not justified given his reputation. But.... well!

“I know that he is over eighty years of age and I am but twenty-five”, Mr. Drummond said patiently. “Even those in my profession can manage basic mathematics, gentlemen. The jibe made some time back that he could raise a football team from his bastard sons is I might say an underestimate; he could fill both teams with substitutes, provide the officials and make a fair start on a crowd!”

I could not but smile at his bluntness. I had heard the same thing said about my father's late business associate Lord Sheridan Hawke (I would later come to realize just how true it was in his case), whose son Lord Tobias we had at least partly avenged in our recent Repellent Philanthropist case.

“Have you any contact with the family?” I asked, dragging myself away from painful memories of the past.

“Not as such”, he smiled. “Even without the mess that he and his sons are making of the estate, they could not afford to fund _all_ his bastard offspring! It is what happened two days ago that has given me cause for concern which is why I came here.”

“Family does not end in blood”, Watson observed.

“Mine may be about to do just that”, Mr. Drummond said. “The title is one of the oldest in Scotland and, by a great stroke of misfortune, nominative rather than successive.”

“He means that the current holder of the title may nominate anyone as his heir provided they are of the bloodline”, I explained to a puzzled Watson. “Even you, sir.”

Mr. Drummond chuckled.

“I think that I would rather bet on Martians invading than that ever happening!” he smiled. “Besides my father has three legitimate sons; Malcolm, Torquil and Archibald. All have sons and grandsons to continue the line although sad to say most are like my father. My late mother's cousin Ben works at the house and he keeps me informed of how things are there; he says that the only one that he would give tuppence for is Mr. Archibald's eldest son Edmund who is but fifteen years of age. Otherwise it is the case that most of the apples have not fallen far from a bad tree.”

He drew a breath.

“Two days ago I had a client whom I did not think anything unusual of, at least at first. We did what he wished and had paid for but afterwards he wished to talk about me, which I thought unusual although it is not unknown. Indeed I think some gentlemen really wish only for someone to listen to but consider going to a molly-house more 'manly'. Such are our species, I suppose. I did not of course reveal my parentage to this fellow but his questions led me to suspect that he knew of it and was prompting me for information. I did not like it at all.”

“You believe that one of your half-brothers is trying to obtain information that they might use against the others?” I asked. He nodded.

“As I said, there is a gaggle of MacGyvers out there”, he said. “The odds are that at least some of them will talk, given enough money. The newspapers speculate about Father all the time of course, but as gentlemen we all know how society functions; as long as there is no actual _proof_ then people will continue to accept him. For all his behaviour he does crave that acceptance.”

I looked thoughtfully at the young fellow.

“There is something else”, I said. “Something that you have not yet mentioned, but that makes this matter urgent in some way.”

He smiled.

“You are correct, sir”, he said. “Ben wrote recently to tell me that my father recently suffered a mild stroke. He has made a partial recovery but he is not what he once was.”

“I did not read that in the newspapers”, Watson said.

I nearly smirked at his admission that he perhaps read the social pages more than most gentlemen. He stared suspiciously at me but I managed to keep a straight face.

“It was covered up”, Mr. Drummond explained, his own slight smile telling me that he too had spotted the slip, “and he was told to rest for two weeks. A sprained ankle was the official reason put out. But he was warned to avoid any further stress in his life especially given his age. It is my opinion that my client was most likely paid to try to extract information from me. He failed, but despite my only tangential relationship to my family I am still concerned for them.”

I smiled inwardly at a molly-man using a word like 'tangential'. The world really was full of surprises.

“What would happen if your father died not having nominated anyone as heir?” I asked.

“That cannot happen”, he said. “On inheriting a new duke is obliged to make a choice and lodge it with the family lawyers, even if it is not made public. But there is always the chance that someone has found out what that choice was and is endeavouring to effect a change, especially now with time very clearly short.”

“I shall most definitely look into this matter for you”, I promised. “It will take some time given the circumstances, but I will contact you at the house as soon as I have something.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps while I am here perhaps the doctor might be good enough to check an injury I sustained last week. A sprain which has not healed as fast as I had hoped.”

Watson nodded his assent and I went to see what newspapers from the past few weeks I could obtain from Miss Hellingly.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was for once grateful of Watson's preference for reading the social pages (even if I did very rarely chivvy him about that on the odd occasion). I also went out to post a letter; on returning to our rooms I found that Mr. Drummond had left and my friend was presumably in his room. I called out to him and he came out looking strangely down.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, surprised. He blushed.

“Nothing”, he said. “You said that you wanted me to help you look at some articles?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. From his slightly rumpled clothes he had undressed for some reason, yet it was the middle of the day and he had no new clothes to try on.... oh my Lord he had not!

I felt a surge of bitter jealousy before logic reasserted itself. Campbell would never allow any of his 'boys' to behave in such a manner, I knew that. I should have known that, let alone Mr. Drummond was far too moral a man to have done such a thing. But then why had my friend looked so embarrassed?

Then I got it. He had been comparing a certain part of his body to that of Mr. Drummond, just two years his junior and.... arguably a tad more well-endowed. He stared hard at the floor clearly hoping that I would say nothing.

I said nothing. Neither of us was in a position to comment, really.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“The 'Times' is getting worse by the day”, Watson sighed some hours later after we had both been reading through far too many articles on people who could have bored for England. “I do not know what it is that you wish me to find.”

“I do not 'wish' you to find anything”, I said. “I have read most of these myself but I know full well that it is easy to find something if you start out by looking for it.”

He just looked adorably confused. There was probably a pout somewhere in my immediate future which I would not find in the least bit adorable. And perhaps a(nother) journey up a long river in north-east Africa while my conscience just rolled its eyes at me.

“I suppose it is better than these terrible magazines you got from Miss Hellingly”, he said. “They are nothing but scandalous gossip.”

“Indeed”, I said. “I honestly wonder what sort of person keeps _that_ sort of thing on their bedside cabinet.”

He flushed most horribly.

“You saw!” he hissed.

“I called in on you one day last month and saw 'Etymological Peregrinations' there”, I grinned. “Three copies by the look of it.”

And there came the pout! He folded his arms and huffed at me.

“Your thoughts?” I prompted pointing to the pile of newspapers and magazines.

_“I could do with a less nosier room-mate!”_

I put on my most injured expression, the sort which had once had my mother drag Randall over her knee and give him six of the best (impressive as he had been nineteen at the time, but then the pest had filched a whole rasher of _my_ bacon). My friend folded at once. 

“I am sorry”, he said picking up a magazine. “There is only one odd thing about all these articles, apart from the fact they were all hostile to the duke and his family.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“They were all written by Scottish writers.”

I just looked at him.

“The duke _is_ Scottish”, I said, nonplussed.

“I know”, he said, “but these are all _London_ magazines. There cannot be that many Scots writers in London who all just happen to hate the duke, surely?”

He really was a lot smarter than he often thought himself. I made a mental note to buy him an extra bar of chocolate for being so clever. I might even let him keep all his bacon tomorr....

No. That was going too far. I was not that far gone _and my conscience could cut with whispering ‘yet’ while it was at it!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was near my stepbrother's house the following day and took the chance to call in on him. He was it turned out away in the East End with Mr. Buxted apparently looking to take over a molly-house there, but I was able to speak with Mr. Drummond who from his dishevelled appearance had just come from a client. That and the fact he was only wearing a dressing-gown which.... well, such places were not exactly famed for their modesty.

Perhaps I had been wrong to tease Watson. And Mr. Drummond really might remember not to cross his legs when sat down; I could see... everything!

“The cases progresses”, I said, not myself feeling the least bit inadequate in any area, “but I need to make a number of inquiries into the world of journalism to discover who is behind these attacks on your family. That will I am afraid take some time.”

“I can help you there”, he said.

“You can?” I asked surprised. He grinned.

“We have several members of the press as our clients”, he smiled. “Not just for the obvious reasons; many of them come here thinking to extract secrets on the great and the good. We do not of course provide any such information; discretion is our watchword.”

That I knew to be true. In what was basically a sordid business my stepbrother's success was because he maintained high standards that earned him a good reputation among both clients and employees alike. I knew that he had once dismissed a fellow who had gone to the press with details about a client of his, and who had had a most unfortunate encounter with some of his former co-workers very soon after. There had been no further lapses by any others of his 'boys'.

“They would help out?” I asked dubiously. I knew several journalists and frankly I thought most of them gave vultures a bad name. They had their uses, but as Watson so rightly, said, so did lawyers, sewage workers and politicians.

“In return for certain less critical information about some less desirable patrons”, he said. “Campbell has done that before when we had that member of parliament who tried to close us down. You remember, sir; that ghastly Mr. Nolan. The press 'discovered' things about his 'family' life that were quite irregular and he backed away.”

I gave him a sheet of paper.

“These are the names of all the journalists who have written articles against your father and family along with the publications”, I said. “My clever medical friend observed that they are all of Scots ancestry which leads me to suspect some or most of them are pseudonyms. I need to know which if any of them are real, then we can proceed from there.”

“I will get on it right away”, Mr. Drummond promised. “There was another article in the 'Times' today alleging financial impropriety by Torquil. I doubt that he would have the imagination although I am less certain about that shrew of a wife of his, but with all this mud at least some of it will stick.”

“That”, I said, “is all too true.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I have to admit that even I was surprised at the efficiency with which my stepbrother's 'boys' were able to extract the required information from their journalists clientele. I made the mistake of remarking upon this to a certain medical acquaintance of mine who retorted that it was not just the information that had been extracted. I really do not know why I kept him around at times!

Oh yes. The bacon. And he usually had that second and third coffee ready for me of a morning, too. No other reasons. _And my conscience had better not even start!_

AA week and two more articles later Watson and I were dining at the Plaza Hotel where my brother Guilford was then working. In fairness – which is difficult when it comes to my immediate elder sibling – I must correct the impression my friend’s writings sometimes gave in that my pestilential brother's frequent changes of employment were due to his character, perfectly understandable although such a belief might have been. The truth was that he was good at his job and always got bored once he had made things work as efficiently as they could at a place. 

Since you ask, yes. I did make sure to check my food before eating. I _knew_ my brother! Although when I advised John to do the same, he suggested that we could always ‘report’ his brother to their mother for punishment, whether he had actually done anything or not. He really was terrible at times!

Guilford had at least been able to tell me that a certain person who I wished to meet was dining there that evening, which was also good as it gave me a reason to treat Watson to an evening out. He had also been able to ensure that we were placed at a table next to said person, so that I was able to engender what seemed like a chance encounter.

“Sir Oliver?” I said feigning surprise.

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling was one of the chief advisers to Mr. Gladstone and an important figure in the political world at the time. As was mentioned earlier in this tale there was a general election looming for which it was widely (and as it turned out, correctly) predicted that the Liberals would sweep to power. Such men as the baronet before me should have kept a low profile but he had become infamous after being caught talking to his employer shortly before a speech that had come out differently to what had been planned, with the result that the 'Times' had done an infamous cartoon of him as a puppet-master controlling a puppet Gladstone. The angry official had had threatened to sue but nothing had come of it, which had of course led people to think the accusation all too true. He was about fifty-five years old and, as the 'Times' had so accurately described him, 'a prime piece of pure prancing pomposity'.

The baronet looked down his nose at me. There was a lot of it to look down.

“Who are you?” he said disdainfully.

I looked across at the lady he was seated with whom I knew to be his wife, Lady Agnes. Whom I knew to be the daughter of a certain Highland duke.

“This _is_ a most fortuitous coincidence”, I said. “I was intending to visit you later this week over a set of scurrilous newspaper articles.”

Neither of them reacted, yet I could sense a change in the atmosphere.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said rudely. “Good day, sir.”

“Not about Mr. Alan Cameron?” I smiled. “Mr. Aidan MacAvie? Mr. Stuart Carr? Mr. James Ferrers? Would you like me to list your five other pseudonyms while I am about it?”

The knight had gone pale. 

“I know all, sir”, I said quietly. Around us the buzz of the busy restaurant continued, while Watson and the nobleman's wife watched us intently. “I know of your attempt to discredit your father-in-law who, despite his Scottish title, holds considerable lands in Leinster and is well thought of by the new Home Rule Party who may hold the balance of power either after the forthcoming election or at some future date. I know of the articles written by those journalists and in whose handwriting they were submitted.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said loftily, although he looked increasingly worried.

“I did not say that they were in _your_ handwriting, sir”, I smiled. “However I have obtained a sample of that of your secretary and that matches the writing on the articles perfectly. Not forgetting the long weekends the two of you have spent in certain expensive hotels as 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith'. I have also obtained details of the bank account opened to receive payment for those articles – an account in both your name _and hers!”_

The man had gone deathly pale. His wife was clearly considering whether the cutlery was sharp enough for what she had in mind. I really should have arranged for something sharper to have been available.

“I may or may not have more”, I said. “I will accept the cessation of these articles and your resignation. Otherwise.... I may use my contacts to make sure that certain people in authority receive some even more damning information.”

I leaned forward.

“Including the piece about that distinctive mole on your left buttock!” I whispered.

I may have said that a shade too loudly. His wife looked _murderous!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling resigned his governmental post the next day. His wife had already left him and had initiated immediate divorce proceedings. She had also taken a pair of scissors to her husband's wardrobe. Not to him unfortunately, but one could not have everything.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: There was an interesting epilogue to this case. I subsequently visited the duke in his London home and apprised him of how matters had developed, and he was more than gracious in rewarding me. Only a few months after that he did indeed die of a stroke and his will, when it was read, shocked his family. His estate and title were bequeathed to his grandson Edmund but the management of the estate for the five or so years until the boy attained his majority fell to none other than Mr. Drummond, who returned to Scotland and made such a good job of things that he was subsequently kept on as the estate manager. I would meet him up there one day not that far into the future – albeit in less than happy circumstances.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† Then still a separate county, comprising an incredible twenty-two small enclaves scattered across the northern parts of Ross-shire which which it was merged in 1890. The principal settlements were Cromarty, Strathpeffer, Ullapool and Jemimaville, and altogether it was about twenty per cent larger than the old county of Middlesex or about a quarter the size of the U.S. state of Rhode Island. Today (2020) it is part of the sprawling Highland Region, a behemoth about the size of the U.S. state of Vermont but with less than 40% its population._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	17. Case 32. The Adventure Of Drake's Drum ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. Sergeant LeStrade asks Holmes to go down to rural north Devonshire to see his eldest son Gareth, who has moved there for his health and lives with the sergeant's younger brother Bors. Gareth LeStrade suspects that something is not right about the recent return to the area of two soldiers, and he is right – but Holmes ‘ghosts' his way to a solution!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was a curious affair, starting from our own haven in Cramer Street and ending in two men being hung for a crime they must have been sure that they had gotten away with. It all began with Sergeant LeStrade, who - brace yourselves, gentle reader! - stunned us both by actually coming round to see us on a day when Miss Hellingly was _not_ baking!

Holmes says that I make a poor liar, and he is right. Of course it was a baking day, and we had to wait for one happy London sergeant to finish his slice of Madeira cake – there was not even a single crumb left on that plate and I was sure that he would have licked it had we not been there! - before we learned of the reason for his visit. Or more accurately the _other_ reason for his visit.

Holmes really could stop shaking his head like that. It is just _annoying!_

“You remember my eldest, Gareth?” our visitor said. “Sixteen now and he has never been right, but he's better after the doctor here recommended a change of air. I sent him to Bors down in Ilfracombe on the North Devon coast, about as wild an area as you can find in England these days. The boy doesn't want to follow in my footsteps worse luck, but he's great at reading people and he wrote to me the other day saying he thinks a friend of his may have been murdered.”

_(Sherlock later explained to me that shortly after we had moved in to Montague Street, he had assisted Mr. Bors LeStrade, who was some twelve years younger than our cake-loving friend, when the fellow had been badly injured while track-laying in his job as a railwayman. The Great Northern Railway had tried to wriggle out of paying for their errors but Holmes had pinned them down and secured a sum that had the young fellow set for life. That had also enabled his move to North Devonshire; one of LeStrade’s fellow officers had recommended the area to him. I had recommended such an area for young Gareth LeStrade due to certain breathing problems which, I had felt, were being exacerbated by the poor quality of London’s air)._

“’May have been’?” Holmes asked. “How can he be in doubt, pray? Either a fellow is dead or he is not dead.”

“This Teddy went into the Army as a drummer-boy”, LeStrade said. “They take them far too young even for such a role, though that's just my opinion. He was down in Egypt and Ger heard that he'd been stabbed to death by a raiding-party down near the Sudan.”

_(I had no idea then just how well I myself would soon come to know that barren and scorching area, nor the painful circumstances that would drive me there barely three years hence)._

“What makes him think that his friend was murdered?” I asked.

“Two fellows from a nearby village, Combe Martin, went with him”, LeStrade said. “Ger said that they pretended to be friends with Teddy but they just wanted to cadge money off of him. And ever since they got back they have had a lot more money to throw around. It smells off.”

“You are not asking much, then”, Holmes said with a smile. “Just to find out if a crime was committed over a thousand miles away.”

LeStrade's face fell, and not I suspected because he had finished the cake. Well, not solely because of that.

“I did say you might find it a bit of a stretch”, he admitted. It's just.... you see, for all he’s good at reading people, Ger doesn't really have much up top.”

“He is bald already?” Holmes asked with what was obviously _faux_ innocence.

“You know how Bors is a bit detached from the real world at times”, the sergeant said. “I remember how the bastards tried to use that against him to avoid paying out, damn them! Ger is a bit the same but he has a good sense for when something's not right, and I think he's likely right on this.”

“North Devonshire sounds a charming area”, Holmes said. “Watson, could your surgery spare you for a few days?”

“They could”, I said, “provided I arrange it with them beforehand. And I know that they recently extended the railway to Ilfracombe, so getting there should not be a problem.”

Holmes smiled.

“Then once you have made the arrangements, we shall go and see if your son is right, LeStrade.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes had a narrow escape just before we left as he had been asked to call in on his parents, but his cousin Luke sent round that Lady Holmes had just completed her saga on how Robin Hood gave his Merry Men some drugged beer after which they all had their merry way with him, and that this 'Arrow' needed editing. My friend instead sent his apologies that he had to rush off to Devonshire on an urgent case, and also sent round to his pestilential brother Randall that he was going to their mother to tell her about the coal-merchant's daughter before he could get in and explain himself. He received a boastful reply that his lounge-lizard of a brother had sent from the post-office along from their parents' house that he was right there and headed inside. 

We all know what pride comes before!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was a little surprised that we went all the way across London to the London & South Western's Waterloo Station rather than the much nearer Paddington. The Great Western had I knew a much faster route at least as far as Barnstaple only a dozen or so miles south of Ilfracombe, with the new Taunton to Barnstaple line having been opened shortly before the Ilfracombe branch itself. Perhaps my friend just preferred to stick with one railway company all the way as we would only have to change once at Exeter, not twice at Taunton and Barnstaple.

Ilfracombe turned out to be built on a steep hill and the railway station had been placed right at the top of it. This was often the way with far too many stations, a false economy which would come back to bite the railways in the later age of the 'bus and the automobile. At least it was downhill to our seafront hotel, and Holmes had promised that when we returned we would pause for a few hours at Exeter so that I could take in the historic cathedral there. It was fortunate that we had gone via the South Western after all.

When we met LeStrade's brother and nephew I was hard-put to resist smiling, for physically they were much the image of our friend and for that matter of each other. Mr. Bors LeStrade was only eight years older than his nephew, and as our friend had said both of them had that air of semi-detachment from the world around them. But they were both friendly gentlemen and I liked them.

We had not been at our host's house for more than a few minutes before he had another visitor, so clearly the rural telegraph was working with its usual efficiency. This was a plain but well-presented young girl of about eighteen, with far more focus about her than either of the two men before us. She looked us up and down – I was sure that there was a simper at one of us who was not a medical personage before she caught herself – then nodded approvingly.

“Yes, I suppose you will do”, she said. “My name is Mercy Waring, and my father owns a fish-shop in town. Ger is going to marry me when he turns eighteen.”

From the look on her face I estimated that Ger was going to marry her whether Ger willed it or no. Indeed, Ger had better get used to being what she expected of a husband, or else Ger would live to regret it! Some fellows were so whipped.

Holmes seemed to have acquired a cough during our journey. Hmm.

“Ger told me about the Davey brothers”, Miss Waring said. “No sense in the boy, but he knows people and if he thinks they did something wrong, then they did something wrong.”

“Master LeStrade's father believes that they may have murdered one of his friends”, Holmes said. “Proving that will be rather difficult....”

“Nonsense!” she said roundly. “You just have to talk with Private Witherspoon.”

“Who is that?” I asked.

She looked at her future husband with exasperation.

“Did you not tell them _anything?_ , dear?” she asked.

“They have only just got here”, he muttered defensively. 

I risked a covert look across at the doormat, and earned myself a sharp glare from a certain consulting detective in the vicinity.

“Dick Witherspoon was the other fellow in the scouting party when poor Teddy got killed”, she said. “He knows something all right, but he is too scared to talk.”

“Have _you_ spoken with him at all?” Holmes asked. It was his turn to receive an exasperated look.

“No wonder they say it is time to give us women the vote!” she snapped. “You men are _hopeless!_ Of course I cannot talk to him; if I did that then any evidence he came out with would be tainted. Have _some_ sense!”

I suppressed a smile. This was definitely one of our most forthright clients ever.

“But Dick is gullible”, she said, “and that is where you will get him. You will need an actor friend and some blood. The fake stuff might be better in the circumstances.”

The thought crossed my mind that this woman would make a terrifyingly efficient murderess if she ever put her mind to it. I almost felt sorry for poor Master Gareth LeStrade, having to marry that! _And would someone stop shaking his head at me like that!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It took just two days to put all the arrangements in place, and two days after that Holmes and I went to see Private Witherspoon. He was a young fellow who looked barely any older than the dead drummer-boy, Master Edward Drake. 

He was also a complete gibbering wreck.

“Thank God you've come!” he gasped at us as we were barely through the door. “You've got to stop him.”

“Stop who?” Holmes asked with mock confusion.

“Teddy!” the young man exclaimed. “He's haunting me. Every night I hear the sound of his drum-beat, and every morning when I look outside I can see his ghost standing there, bleeding to death again!”

Actually it was a skilled actor friend of Holmes's whom he had paid to come all the way down from London for a 'performance'. 

“I am not sure that even my powers can prevent a ghost from haunting someone”, Holmes said. “You did not yourself do anything that resulted in this fellow's death, sir?”

“No!”

There had been the slightest fraction of a pause before that denial. Holmes looked sharply at him.

“But you do know something about his demise”, he said shrewdly. “Seemingly he is determined to haunt you either until you confess, or join him in the next world. I think that you had better accompany us both to the police-station, sir, and tell us _everything_ that happened. Before it is too late!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At the police-station we found not only Sergeant George Tregarron but also Sergeant Peter Wilson-James from the military police, who Holmes had asked to attend. The young private was in such a state that he barely waited until we were in the interview room before beginning his tale.

“You know how it is with soldiers, sir”, he said, speaking quickly in an effort to get the words out. “Money in one day and out the next; beer and women mostly. Eddie and Asher, they were worse than most. We'd just been paid but they'd blown the whole lot that same evening.”

“I overheard Asher telling his brother that they knew Teddy had a whole load of money he was saving up to take home with him, because at his age there was nothing to spend it on out there. Asher knew Geoff, who did the assignments, and he arranged for the four of us to go our on patrol one day....”

“One moment”, Sergeant Wilson-James said. “Geoff who? And why the four of you?”

“Geoff Quartermain, sir”, the private responded. “Four was the minimum number we could take because it was dangerous down there; they chose me because they knew I would keep my mouth shut.”

 _Bad mistake on their part_ , I thought wryly. Holmes seemed to be nodding for some reason.

“We were a way from camp when they killed poor Teddy, sir”, the private continued. “It was only two days before we shipped out; I think our commanding officer smelled a rat but he didn't make a fuss in case they kept us all there for an investigation. They took poor Teddy's money, they took his life and..... and now he's after me!”

“Hopefully not now you have confessed”, Holmes said grimly. “Your own part in this was not a minor one, but we must go after the killers first.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

That we did. Asher and Edward Davey were tried for the murder of their drummer-boy Edward Drake, and the two men paid the appropriate price for their foul deeds. Mr. Quartermain was also made to pay for his part in the proceedings; he had quit the Army but he was still charged and served time in gaol as well as losing his pension. Holmes also made sure that the moneys that the men had stolen was taken back and passed on to the drummer-boy's family, as well as recommending that unusual as it was, the Army should provide a pension to the boy's mother in lieu of the unusual circumstances of her son's death, which to their credit they did. For confessing Private Witherspoon was let off with a warning and allowed to continue his life outside the Army; he only had to ensure one more night of his 'haunting' before the ghost vanished, never to be seen again.

And I got to see the wonderful Exeter Cathedral before returning to London and my hypochondriac patients. Yes!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	18. Interlude: Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. Meanwhile, inside a broth.... Debating Society somewhere in London....

_[Narration by Mr. Campbell Kerr, Esquire]_

I looked up and smiled as Brendon strode into the room and deposited his latest earnings in the huge bell-jar. On the settee Alan was dozing after a huge dinner; he was finally beginning to reach his natural size after his recent terrible ordeal. He still woke screaming some nights but thankfully those were fewer now, and I would just hold him and whisper how much I loved him until he stopped shuddering. Even better he was no longer just skin and bones as he had been in those dark days when we had first met.

I seriously doubted that I really could 'fuck him right with my seed', but it was not a hypothesis that I intended to give up on any time soon! He seemed more than happy with my 'efforts' so far!

“I do not think that the insufferable Mr. Ciumino will be making any remarks about not getting what he paid for”, Brendon smiled.

“Not with the way he limped out a few minutes ago”, I agreed. “Your letter did not bring bad news I hope?”

“My father wrote”, the Scotsman said. “Mr. Holmes told him about what had been happening as of late and he wished to express his thanks to me as well. I looked outside but there were no pigs flying by or even politicians keeping to their word, so it had to be real.”

I tutted at his cynicism. Over on the settee Alan yawned and sat up, looking decidedly disgruntled at having been disturbed.

“Is it dinner-time yet?” he asked hopefully.

He scowled as we both laughed at him.

“Many things change in this word of ours”, I smiled, “but not you, beloved.”

“Yes. Food?”

I sighed but rang for the sandwiches that I had had prepared 'just in case'.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	19. Case 33: Some Will, Some Won't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. Lady Henrietta Hammerford dies and the second part of her late husband's will is read – but only those who can meet the conditions therein will inherit. Holmes makes sure that people do indeed get what is coming to them – in both senses!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Sir George Lewis and the Hammerford inheritance.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Generally the people who called on Holmes for help were the sort of people that deserved to be helped. Generally. Of course there were some who did so in the absolute and certain knowledge that because of how important they themselves were he would therefore simply _have_ to assist them in whatever way they wanted (the technical term for such people was 'mistaken', the more honest term is unprintable). In some instances people also called on Holmes to help others so in this case he did just that – and then some!

Every family in England has some history and that of the Hammerfords was more convoluted that most. Ironically they rose to prominence over what was arguably my home village of Belford's sole moment in the historical spotlight; in 1603 one Robert Carey stopped there in his headlong dash to inform King James the Sixth of Scotland that his cousin Great Elizabeth had died and he was now also King James the First of England. Carey was related by marriage to the Hammerfords and they too did well because of his playing the courier, Mr. Obadiah Hammerford becoming Sir Obadiah as a result.

Sir Obadiah's son Nehemiah was in the party that escorted the ill-starred Elizabeth Stuart, James the First's daughter, to marry Frederick V Elector of the Rhine Palatinate† (1613). Mr. Nehemiah Hammerford shared the fate of that luckless couple when her husband tilted for the Bohemian crown in 1619 and lost everything, but the Hammerford family was fortunate when Nehemiah's son Nahum was dispatched to the court of Elizabeth's daughter Sophia who had married Ernest Elector of Hanover. As every schoolboy knows Sophia became heiress presumptive to the English throne in 1700 only to die some six weeks before her cousin Anne in 1714 and leave the throne to her useless lump of a son who became King George the First, first monarch of our current Hanoverian dynasty.

This may seem incidental but it all leads into the event that in turn led to our involvement with this family. By the middle of this century Sir Julius Hammerford was the patriarch one of the richest families in England. And then in an uncanny echo of the disaster to befall the great Marshall dynasty in the thirteenth century, it fell apart with amazing speed. The knight had long wished to acquire the village from which the family had taken its name but he was far too abrasive in his dealings with the owner who, in a fit of annoyance and with no relatives of their own to worry about, left it instead to the Bishop of Hexham. Sir Julius was not amused and waged a long, bitter and ultimately fruitless campaign to what he thought was his as of right. This led the bishop to remark to a local reporter that he wished a pox on the whole Hammerford dynasty. Evidently his superior was in an obliging mood that day because the Grim Reaper proceeded to cut a swathe through the once-copious family, such that when the old baronet died in 1868 there were apart from his wife only four members left. The Hammerford estate was to be administered as a trust for her until that lady's own passing after which, everyone presumed, it would be shared out amongst those of the four who had outlived her. 

The late baronet did indeed leave those people the residue of his estate - just with the odd catch. _Or four._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our visitor Mr. Philip Lewis was not one of the aforementioned beneficiaries, he having married the late Sir Julius's eldest daughter Terpsichore. The couple had had five children before her death some years back but only one, George, had survived and he had just turned twenty-one. Our visitor, who had received a small sum from his father-in-law upon the latter's death, was one of the executors of the will and a trustee of the recently passed Lady Hammerford's estate; the family solicitor up in Northumberland was the other.

“It is all very odd”, Mr. Lewis said. He was about fifty years of age and I thought the atypical country lawyer, down to the spectacles that he kept peering over the top of. “Sir Julius was.... I must be charitable and describe him as subject to fits of whimsy. He has left a most peculiar will and the four beneficiaries – if indeed they are beneficiaries – are far from happy about it. That includes my own son of course.”

“It sounds most intriguing”, Holmes said, “but I do not see where you require the services of either a consulting detective or a doctor, sir.”

“I shall tell you the contents of the will and you will see soon enough”, the fellow said. “The usual bequests to servants and more distant kin such as myself were dealt with before the remainder of the estate was placed into two trusts. The first was for the late Lady Hammerford if she outlived her husband; she was as you might expect was only allowed to draw the income from it and on her death the capital was to pass to charity. The second fund was for the four primary beneficiaries - except that unbeknown to anyone, Sir Julius interposed some rather curious terms and conditions which the four had to fulfil in order to inherit. Furthermore they have to so do within a period of one hundred days from the reading of the will, which happened yesterday.”

“One moment”, Holmes said. “Sir Julius Hammerford was known for being among the richest members of our so-called high society. How much of an 'estate' are we talking here, may I ask?”

I could see why he had asked the question. If any of the recipients failed to meet their conditions whether through their own actions or those of a rival, then the other candidates would likely increase their holdings somewhat or, in a best-case scenario, even scoop the whole pool. Our guest duly gave us a figure and we each drew a sharp breath; that was.... quite an amount!

“So to the runners and riders”, our visitor continued. “I shall start with Sir Julius's sister Mrs. Eleanor Crossley, commonly called Nell. She has never done a day's work in her life and she was forever complaining that her brother did not provide her with the allowance that she was _clearly_ entitled to. She married but it did not work out and her husband later married again; I think it annoyed her that her brother got on better with Mr. Crossley's family than he did with her. She was I must say particularly cross that like me her ex-husband and his two stepsons received immediate bequests albeit small ones on her brother's death, whereas she did not. However the boys in particular are pleasant young gentlemen who even the temperamental Sir Julius got on well with, which surprised me somewhat. In order to qualify for her part of the estate his sister has to acquire and maintain paid employment for a consecutive period of at least twenty-eight days.”

I winced. I knew full well the sort of person who our guest was describing, and one might as well have asked them to build a rocket and go to collect some moon dust.

“Away from seven distant cousins who again all received minor bequests immediately, Sir Julius had but two brothers, Cassius and Augustus”, our guest continued” Cassius died the year before his father, a boating accident if I recall, which was rather a pity as he had been a quiet, respectable young gentleman. Sir Julius made one bequest which did draw attention; a generous one to his son's former valet whom.... well, the talk among the servants was that the gentlemen were close. You know.”

I nodded. We both 'knew'.

“On the other hand the only thing surprising about Augustus was that he did not drink himself to death at a younger age”, our visitor went on. “Oddly he died just four days after his brother; frankly his liver must have been phenomenal to have held out that long. Neither brother had married but Augustus did have a son from an affair that he had conducted where the lady had died in childbirth, and he had acknowledged and raised this Arthur as his own. The boy – he is now in his twenties so I suppose that I should not call him that - has taken all this particularly badly as he is the only remaining Hammerford by name albeit an acknowledged one from an illegitimate line. Then again he always was a sour-faced chap; one of the servants told me that he would struggle to secure last place in a popularity contest! He was always very vocal in his disapproval of my father-in-law's occasionally whimsical sense of humour and Sir Julius found something really cruel for him. Arthur has to appear on the front page of the 'Times' newspaper in some non-criminal capacity.”

“That does not sound so bad”, I said. Our guest smiled.

“It mighty not have been”, he said, “except that it has to be for the playing of a practical joke on some person on high social standing. He must somehow annoy the great and the good but _not_ end up in gaol as a result, or he must try again. That is a fine line.”

I was beginning to like the late Sir Julius. Although I was glad that I was not the one on the receiving end of his 'whimsy'. Our visitor continued.

“Sir Julius and his wife had three children, all daughters; my late wife, Calliope and Urania. He was a singularly uneducated man and proud of that fact, so I assume that the Greek theme had been Lady Hammerford's. Calliope was engaged to be married but died of consumption; again her potential groom received something from Sir Julius on his death even though he had married and had children with someone else; he himself was not up to much but his wife was one of those who as they say called a spade a spade and I think that Sir Julius enjoyed her frankness when so many around him were being sycophantic. Urania died only a couple of years after marrying an American called Mr. Danforth Rotherby. Sir Julius disliked him intensely and, sad to say, he had a party to celebrate when the fellow was shot for being in bed with another man's wife!”

I winced. I would never have done anything like that if say Mr. Randall Holmes had.... well, probably never..... it seemed rather questionable....

“It all sounds most intriguing”, Holmes said, shooting me an annoying look.

“They had had one son, a boy called Daniel”, our guest continued. “I am hardly selling the family well, I know, but he is inveterately fond of the sound of his own voice and always keen that the world should benefit from his 'great wisdom'. Sir Julius was particularly inventive when it came to the grandson who was always telling him how to live his life better.”

I leaned forward in anticipation. Holmes smiled at my eagerness.

“He has to join a Trappist order of monks”, Mr. Lewis grinned, “and remain silent for a period of twenty-eight days. His Father Abbot and all the other monks are pledged to monitor him, and should he talk his clock is immediately reset to zero. The monastery received a bequest, but that was not contingent on Daniel's success or failure.”

Now I _really_ liked the late Sir Julius! I could name several of my own patients who would have benefited from such a move! I wondered if the monks offered a discount for bulk entries.....

_I wondered if some damn annoying mind-reader in the vicinity could stop shaking his head like that!_

“Finally to my own dear son”, our visitor said with a sigh. “I have tried to raise him well but I am afraid that he has grown into the most priggish, pompous, insufferably self-righteous fellow that I have ever met! And before you say anything gentlemen, that was the description given him by my late wife with which I am in complete accord.”

 _So much for a father's love_ , I thought. 

“What is his task?” I asked. Our visitor grinned.

“This most righteous of men has to commit a crime that will see him locked in a prison cell for at least four weeks”, he said. “He must however be out of gaol by the time the final will is read, some ninety-nine days hence. Any ideas, gentlemen?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I have to say”, Holmes said once our guest had gone, “that this is a most unusual case. Most of my work involves keeping people out of gaol. I think this may be the first time that a client has requested me to ensure that their own son gets put into one!”

“He needs to commit a crime”, I mused, “but not something so serious that it would result in his being incarcerated for too long a period of time. That will not be easy, let alone the fact that the judicial system moves with the speed of a crushed snail.”

“There is another variable to consider”, Holmes said. “The length of sentence will depend to some extend on who takes the trial, the 'what the judge had for breakfast' factor. That and the character of said judge could mean the difference between a small fine and a lengthy spell at Her Majesty's Pleasure. I wonder....”

“What are you plotting?” I asked. 

“You will soon see!” he promised.

I pou.... scowled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sir George Lewis was currently visiting his paternal aunt up in Scotland and was due to attend us that Friday. By the time he arrived however one his rivals had already attained their goal. Young Arthur Hammerford had made the front page of the 'Times' by the simple expedient of climbing up on the statue of the great Duke of Wellington at Hyde Park Corner and planting a French flag in his grasp. I had to applaud his ingenuity; the will had not actually stated that the great figure had to be a _living_ one. The authorities were as one might imagine far from pleased, but as he was apparently 'in his cups' at the time he was let off with a fine and a stern talking-to.

The young baron was worried.

“Cousin Arthur will get part of the estate now”, he said sourly. “I am almost certain that my great-aunt will not find employment anywhere; I cannot imagine anyone being that desperate, and Danny cannot shut up for twenty-eight minutes let alone twenty-eight days! But then I did not imagine Arthur being on the inside pages of the 'Times', damn him!”

“We must set about getting you in gaol”, Holmes said and I was sure that that must have been the first time that I ever hear him utter those words. “Now I have checked, and I see that the aptly named Judge Justice is on the bench for the next few weeks. He is renowned for passing the stiffest sentences possible.”

“That is a _good_ thing?” Sir George asked, looking askance at my friend.

“It means that you can commit a relatively minor offence and be sure of a month inside so that you can claim your inheritance”, Holmes said reasonably. “There is the inevitable delay of waiting for the legal process to work and we must have you out in a little over three months, but for certain crimes or at least certain victims, the wheels of justice can be made to grind rather more quickly than usual. I therefore suggest that you slap the face of Mr. Paul Rainham-Woods when he leaves his house in the Strand next Monday. I shall have a constable friend of mine standing by to arrest you immediately so that there is no chance for any retaliatory action.”

“Why him?” Sir George asked curiously.

“Because not only is he a lawyer, his wife is Judge Justice's elder daughter Pandora so His Honour will _not_ be pleased”, Holmes explained. “Both men will use their influence to speed the normally decrepit pace that our judicial system usually functions at. I have some back-up plans as well but I believe that this is your best opportunity.”

“I do not think that I can do it”, the man muttered. I could see that he matched his father's description of him all too well. Holmes sighed. 

“Here”, he said passing the fellow a card. “This is the address of Mr. Winslow, an actor friend of mine. He can show you various techniques to cause as much embarrassment to your target as possible, while making sure that you get caught afterwards.”

“But what reason would I have for doing such a thing?” the man asked.

I could think of a number of reasons in pounds, shillings and pence, but I said nothing.

“Well, I suppose that now we know he has 'qualified', you could always let the whole estate go to your cousin Arthur?” Holmes said slyly.

The fellow almost snatched the card from him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

By the day before the 'attack' there was mixed news for our client. He was feeling a little more confident about what was planned and Holmes had arranged for a female actress to appear as well, her bearing a passing resemblance to Mrs. Rainham-Woods. The idea would be that our client would mistakenly think that the judge's son was seeing his current girlfriend behind his back, hence the attack.

The bad news was that against all expectations Mrs. Eleanor Crossley, the late Sir Julius's sister, had somehow obtained paid employment.

“Only as a maid”, our client told us, clearly worried. “That was all she could get and according to a maid of hers she _hates_ it! But she is determined to stick it out. Worse, I heard from my father that Danny had made it to the end of his first week. He must have glued his lips together!”

“You will need to be outside the house by a quarter-past eight in case he is early”, Holmes told him. “My sources tell me that Mr. Rainham-Woods is always seen off at the door by his wife every morning but that the times vary slightly. This particular morning you 'happened' to be out for a walk and saw them. Enraged, you determined to take action. Mr. Rainham-Woods is due in court tomorrow, so the effect will be maximized.”

“Good!” our client said sourly. “I can almost taste that lovely money!”

 _And I can almost see Holmes's bill_ , I thought sourly.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was just over a month later and a very anxious Sir George Lewis was in the dock. Despite the attack going to plan, the past month had gone very ill for him. Against all expectations his cousin had managed to keep his mouth shut and his great-aunt to keep her employment for the required twenty-eight days, so all three of his rivals had now qualified to inherit part of the estate. 

Judge Robertson Justice frowned down upon the figure in the dock before him. I was surprised that the varnish on the dock did not peel under that glare.

“You have nothing to say in your defence, you impudent young scallywag?” he demanded.

“No, sir”, our client said.

“Harrumph!” the judge said. “Fortunately for you I am in a lenient frame of mind today. Fourteen days will suffice. Take him down.”

Our client looked up in alarm.

“Two weeks?” he spluttered.

Holmes waved a piece of paper in the air for some reason. I did not know why but when I saw our client react I guessed that it must be some sort of signal.

“Eh, it was worth it!” Sir George said airily. “Pompous young ass. Let alone that tart of his masquerading as my Flo.....”

_“What did you say?”_

I was reminded of the ancient god Zeus thundering his displeasure down from Mount Olympus. The judge looked absolutely _furious!_

“She was a tart!” our client said robustly. “Anyone could see that. God alone knows what sort of family she comes from....”

“God may not but I certainly do!” the judge roared. “Twenty-one days!”

“Is that it?” our client yawned. “She was still a tart.”

“Twenty-eight days!” the judge all but yelled banging his gavel in a rage. “Take him down before I come over there myself!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Before we left Holmes pointed out the three rival candidates to our client's ambitions, all clearly here to see their potential rival for all that money. The large if not formidable lady was Mrs. Eleanor Crossley recently a maid for all her sins, the snooty looking dark-haired fellow (seriously, a pony-tail?) next to him was Mr. Daniel Rotherby and the snide looking young man at the end was Mr. Arthur Hammerford. On looks alone I would not have left any of them anything if I had been the late Sir Julius Hammerford; they had all looked most annoyed when Holmes's client had achieved his goal.

“I find it a miracle that any hotel employed _her_ ”, I said, looking at Mrs. Crossley.

The silence that followed was far too marked. I stared suspiciously at my friend.

“Just how _did_ she find a position at a hotel?” I asked.

“Remember you had those two clients out in Denham last week?” he asked.

I did, although I did not see the relevance of his question. I would normally never have travelled into even the nearest area of Buckinghamshire for a patient but these had been cousins of the main sponsors of our practice so I had spent most of a wasted day treating what had basically been two sore throats. There may or may not have been some moderately expensive pastilles proscribed for the 'sufferers'. At least they had paid cash!

“Yes”, I said. “What of it?”

“I went round to all three of them and offered my services”, he explained. “I said that since Sir George had approached me – or at least his father had – I felt that it only fair that they should be offered the chance to use my talents as well.”

“And you helped them all?” I asked dubiously. “Is that not going against our client's interests?”

“I prefer to think of it as honouring the spirit of the late Sir Julius's will”, Holmes chuckled, “in making sure that each had the same chance. Besides, I felt that it was for the best that all of them got exactly what was coming to them.”

He was a devious bastard! _And he could stop with the nodding and all!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was several weeks later and we were attending the final reading of Sir Julius Hammerford's will. He had directed that it be done in public much to the annoyance of the four beneficiaries and there was quite a crowd gathered for the occasion. I did not like to think how the beneficiaries would react if they had known that Holmes had been working for each and every one of them, although given their natures I was confident none of them would have mentioned it to any of the others.

“I wonder why none of them thought to challenge the will?” I said as Mr. Philip Lewis took his seat next to the family lawyer, a bespectacled elderly gentleman called Mr. Louis Golcombe. 

“Sir Julius inserted what they call a 'challenge clause'”, Holmes explained. “Those thinking to do so would have to lodge a large sum which they would have lost if unsuccessful, as well as losing their share of the estate. He was a far-sighted gentleman was he not?”

“Not far-sighted enough to prevent his beneficiaries from getting outside help”, I pointed out. He smiled knowingly.

“Actually he was”, he said. “Another clause in the will stated that the beneficiaries would lose their entitlement if they had any moneys owing on the day that the final will was read. That included bills for using outside help.”

And the smug bastard promptly waved four cheques in my face. He had got four lots of pay out of one case! Harrumph!

Fortunately Mr. Philip Lewis chose that moment to start the reading so I settled for a mild scowl at him (it was _not_ a pout, whatever anyone said). 

“As you may know”, the lawyer said peering at us over the top of his spectacles, “Sir Julius planned to divide his estate on his death. Excluding minor bequests to more distant kin, friends and servants, one part was to be placed in a trust fund and the income from it given to his wife if she outlived him, which indeed she did. Upon Lady Hammerford's death the capital in that fund was then to be divided equally between the Bishop of Hexham and the Northumberland Police Widows and Orphans Fund.” 

There were some scowls from the assembled beneficiaries but they were clearly intent on just how much each of them was going to get. The lawyer smiled.

“Sir Julius allocated the second part of his estate to his surviving close relatives; his grandson Sir George Lewis, his grandson Mr. Daniel Rotherby, his sister Mrs. Eleanor Crossley and his nephew Mr. Arthur Hammerford.” He paused and I had the distinct impression that he was milking the moment somewhat. “You all know that certain conditions had to be met by each beneficiary, and I can confirm that each of the above named people did indeed qualify for a quarter-share in that part of the estate.”

“How much do we get?” Mrs. Crossley demanded. Classy, I thought.

“The funds were as I said to be divided equally”, the lawyer said. “Sir Julius asked also that that amount be made public. In sum total it is.... three farthings‡.” He paused (quite unnecessarily in my opinion) before adding waspishly, “each.”

I know that it is a cliché but you really could have heard a pin drop. There was nearly a minute of silence before Mr. Arthur Hammerford found his voice.

“This is impossible!” he yelled. “Where is all the damn money?”

The lawyer winced at his loud tone.

“I am afraid that Sir Julius arranged matters so that the bulk of his funds were in the trust for his widow, to be passed on to charity thereafter”, he said. “You will of course have to sign for your 'inheritances'.”

He was dangerously close to smug, I thought. But given the poor examples of humanity – who had been played for fools and were now arguing bitterly amongst themselves – I supposed that he was just about justified in his attitude. Although I myself would have refrained from such open gloating.

Holmes was looking at me again and smiling knowingly. Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I suppose that I should have been annoyed with Holmes for not informing me about working for all four beneficiaries like that. But with four fees for one case he very generously treated me to dinner at my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square, and after two slices of chocolate cake I very generously decided to forgive him. After all I could be the bigger man here.

Especially when he purchased the rest of the cake to go!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† A small electorate (state entitled to a vote in the election of the old Holy Roman Emperor) in south-west Germany. It was centred around the towns of Heidelberg, Düsseldorf and Mannheim, its scattered lands spread across the modern German states of Pfalz, Baden and Bavaria._  
_‡ About 32p (39c) at 2020 prices. The total inheritance was threepence in old money; it had to be at least that since mathematically that was the smallest amount that could be shared equally between two, three or four people._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	20. Case 34: The Adventure Of The Troubled Tawer ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. Occasionally one of Holmes's investigations into something seemingly minor would reveal a darker crime. This was one such case, when what looked like a simple mistake over a delivery was actually an attempt to ruin a London merchant.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the less rarely asked (but more sensible) questions about my time with Watson was as to why we so rarely investigated matters concerned with the many trades and businesses of the greatest metropolis in the world. The simple answer was that of course we did; but first, many of these cases were small if not trivial, and second, most of the businesses naturally eschewed any publicity, which however innocent they were or were not would still have harmed them. They may say that there is no such thing as bad publicity, but they are wrong on that.

Watson has just suggested that any publicity about my mother’s stories would prove to be very bad publicity indeed. He really is getting worse!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Bulstrode Harrison was some forty or so years of age, tall, thin, blond going bald, and bore a faint resemblance to our friend Gregson who we would be seeing tomorrow as it was Miss Hellingly's baking-day again. We might or might not also be seeing LeStrade as well – and the sun might or might not be rising in the east!

Watson was still a bad influence on me. I glared across at the villain, earning myself an injured look in the process.

“You see, Mr. Holmes”, the businessman said earnestly, “there is no way that this could have happened. Yet it did.”

I really wished that people would set themselves in order before bringing their cases to me. As I had said to Watson the other day, surely a little organization was not too much to ask? I had had no idea why he had looked around our main room and nodded rather too fervently.

“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning”, I said. “A simple mix-up of two similar-looking substances does not seem much to concern oneself about.”

“It may well have severely damaged my business”, Mr. Harrison said hotly, “and that is no small matter, let me tell you!”

“Tell us how it started”, Watson urged.

The fellow took a deep breath. 

“I am a tawer”, he said, “a member of a small but important trade. We are related to the tanners but we use alum and salt rather than tannin, which creates a most excellent white leather that is always in demand.”

“I buy my alum, salt and certain other products from Hart's warehouse in the docks, and I also purchase certain food items from them. They buy in bulk you see, so I save more than the proverbial ha'penny as well as time shopping elsewhere. It is an arrangement that has always worked well, until the other day.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The warehousemen delivered all the goods as per normal and my daughter Fenella sorted them for me”, he said. “The industrial products to my own workshop and my food purchases into the house. She does not of course have the strength to carry such heavy things; two of my men do that for her.”

“One part of the order was a number of bags of sugar which I usually divided up between my house, my office and the factory tea-room; however Fenella is training up to be a cook and this time she had two of the bags placed aside for her. But when she came to start using them this morning, one of the bags had salt in it!”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Was it labelled as sugar?” I asked. Our guest nodded.

“Fortunately she was careful as always”, he said, “and checked the bag before using the contents. It is not like Hart's at all; they have a most excellent reputation and I have gladly recommended them to several of my business colleagues.”

I thought for a moment.

“Have you approached Mr. Hart on this?” I asked.

For some reason our guest reddened.

“That is rather difficult”, he said. “You see, Florrie and I are friends going all the way back to our schooldays, and I happen to know that he is struggling just now. A supplier overseas to whom he paid a large amount up front for some hard to obtain goods has decamped with his money, and the police in this country'... they are not exactly putting themselves out to help.”

I thought quietly that I could pull a few strings in that direction if needed. First things first, however.

“I shall have to see this Mr. Hart”, I said. “I think that it rather depends on the other matter at hand.”

“What other matter?” Mr. Harrison asked. “Are you busy on another case?”

I shook my head.

“If you had a bag of sugar that contained salt, then there is the probability that somewhere out there there is someone with a bag of salt that contains sugar”, I explained. “If that is the case, I very much doubt that they will be happy when they make that discovery. I wonder....”

I thought back to Mr. Vamberry, and the possibility I had briefly entertained that his renegade brother might be behind his business troubles. There was more than one way to drive a man to his ruin, especially in the often cut-throat world of commerce. And this happening so soon after Mr. Hart’s problems with that factory in France was decidedly suspicious.

“We will take this case for you, sir”, I said. “And we will go and see Mr. Hart this very day.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Why the urgency?” Watson asked me once our visitor had gone. “Surely it is only a matter of two packages getting swapped round?”

“Think”, I urged. “Mr. Hart's business is in trouble. What better time for someone with a grudge against him – possibly someone behind the French factory, even – to arrange this sort of mistake, which may be the straw that breaks the camel's back. If that is the case then they are going to make every effort to see that that second 'swap' comes to light sooner rather than later.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Florizel Hart – we were ratcheting up the unusual Christian names in this adventure! - was much as one might have imagined, a worried-looking dark-haired gentleman also in his forties. He was most alarmed when we explained the purpose of our visit.

“I must thank Bully for not making a fuss”, he said. “But if what you say is true, then there is every likelihood that someone else will.”

“I know that businessmen by their nature make few friends in this world”, I said, “but is there anyone in particular who may have cause to resent you recently?”

The gentleman scratched his thinning pate.

“I had to sack a fellow I caught stealing”, he admitted. “Williamson; it was probably a mistake to employ him in the first place but his brother-in-law worked here and recommended him. Charcombe; he was most annoyed at my actions and gave me his week's notice. Today is his last day.”

I thought that that too was suspicious. Men in such a position did not usually have the luxury of acting 'on principle', unless of course they had money coming in from elsewhere. Say for example, someone who was willing to pay in order to see a businessman driven to ruin.

“He is in the warehouse now?” I asked.

“He is”, Mr. Hart said. “He was supposed to be out on deliveries but... I am afraid that I assumed the worst and kept him here.”

“He may well have already done the worst, I am afraid”, I said. “Is there anyone else that you could think of?”

“Definitely Mrs. Sharpen!” he said. “My worst customer, who I cannot seem to get rid of. She is always complaining that such an item is short or some other item is missing. I have insisted that the delivery boys get a signature from her that the order is correct, rather than just dropping things off like they can do with other customers.”

I had a sudden idea.

“This Mrs. Sharpen”, I said. “Is she perchance diabetic?”

Watson looked at me curiously, as did our host.

“No, but her son Gregory is”, Mr. Hart said. “He is sixteen now; mercifully he took after his late father rather than his mother. She comes from somewhere over in British India and is running things for him until he is of age. Why did you ask that?”

“Just a hunch”, I said, rising to my feet. “Since Mr. Charcombe is still on the premises I doubt that anything will happen today, but I expect you to have a caller first thing Monday. When do you open, sir?”

“The men start work at five”, he said, “but I do not get here until eight.”

“Then we shall be here shortly before eight o' clock Monday morning”, I said. “Hopefully we shall be able to help you achieve a resolution of matters to your satisfaction.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

One of the many ways in which I valued Watson as a friend was his ability to sense when I did not want to talk about something. We detoured via Luke's house on the way home but he was not back from work yet, so I left a message with Tiny who, bastard that he was, said that he would make sure Mr. Lucifer 'got it'. Even without that damnably annoying smirk from on high I was sure that he would – _and the message!_ I might have said something but Tiny was about twice my size, so I most generously refrained.

Watson's smirk when we had two policemen callers at Cramer Street the following day was also annoying, as well. I really could not abide people who smirked too much!

Thankfully what was left of Luke still came through for me and I was able to depart for Mr. Hart's warehouse where I had a little surprise for someone. Not Mr. Charcombe and Mr. Williamson who were already in a police cell having had a rather abrupt early morning wake-up call. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Sharpen champing at the bit outside the warehouse, clearly annoyed that she had not been allowed in to wait. She was an unpleasant-looking dark-skinned woman of about forty years of age, one of those who had clearly thought that several tons of make-up could make her look less unpleasant (which it had not). She looked down her nose at us both when we arrived.

Mr. Hart arrived on time and I was not the least bit surprised that Mrs. Sharpen almost pushed past him on his way into the office.

“What's this about you trying to poison my son?” the harridan demanded, taking a seat without even being asked.

“You are referring to the sugar in a bag labelled 'salt' that was delivered to your premises last Wednesday”, I said.

She looked at me suspiciously. I definitely detected a simper in there somewhere, though.

“Who are _you_ , sir?” she demanded.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said airily. “This is Doctor John Watson. Make yourself comfortable, madam. Our friend Sergeant Gregson will be here to arrest you very shortly, in about” - I looked at my watch - “two minutes from now.”

“Arrest _me?”_ she spluttered. “What on earth for?”'

“For your role in an attempt to ruin an honest businessman like Mr. Hart here”, I said. “You see, I – or rather my cousin who works for the government – had a rather busy weekend. First there was the uncovering of who was behind the North Picardy Supplies Warehouse whose fraudulent acts were so costly to Mr. Hart to the point that they nearly ruined his business. That person was you, madam. You also conspired with one of his employees who resented the quite correct sacking of his incompetent brother-in-law, in swapping two bags of salt and sugar. You intended to go to the newspapers and claim that that mistake nearly cost your diabetic son his life.”

She spluttered angrily at me, but could not find any words for a defence. Because there were none.

“The police have proof of your French links”, I said, “and also evidence that you paid a substantial sum into the accounts of your accomplices. Ah, I see from the shadow at the door that Gregson is on time as per usual so I advise you, madam, to contact your lawyer.”

She glared at me, but knew that she had lost. Gregson entered and handcuffed her (unnecessarily, but then I asked him to) before escorting the villainess from the room.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“So you see”, I said to Mr. Harrison, “the mistake in the order to your business was no mistake at all. It would allow the miscreants to claim, as they probably will still try to do, that it was a simple error between two bags.”

“I am sorry for young Gregory, though”, the businessman said. “Florrie said that he was a decent lad, undeserving of such a mother. His poor late father would turn in his grave if he knew!”

“I will arrange for Mrs. Sharpen’s business to be transferred to her son as of right”, I said. “Fortunately his paternal uncle is also in business and can guide him through the next few years. As you so rightly say, it is not right that the sins of such a terrible mother be visited on an innocent young man. I shall also call in a favour with a journalistic friend of mine who will make a big thing of how Mr. Hart was the victim here, as well as getting my cousin to make sure that all the funds Mrs. Sharpen effectively stole from your friend are returned with interest.”

“A good ending all round”, Watson smiled.

He was happy with what I had achieved. That alone made it worth it.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	21. Case 35: The Adventure Of The Tousled Tyro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. Post-election problems add to the workload of Sergeant LeStrade, along with a visiting police lieutenant from the United States called Frank Columbo who seems set on rubbing everyone up the wrong way. So he calls on his friend Mr. Holmes for help, something that may or may not happen on a baking day (hint: LeStrade).

_[Narration by Sergeant Gawain LeStrade]_

Valerie, my good lady wife, says that politicians are like a baby's nappies – they need changing regularly and for pretty much the same reason! Our politics are different but we don't discuss them in the house, especially when the kids are about. She also supports that women's suffrage movement which I'm sort of all right with as I suppose it'll happen whether I like it or not. I'm not anywhere near rich enough to have the vote myself yet but there were rumours that smaller fry like me might get it sooner rather than later.

That spring we'd had a general election, with Gladstone and his Liberals turfing out Disraeli and his Conservatives (those two hated each other something fierce, almost as much as I detested that snob Gregson). As I said I didn't do politics, but one of the consequences of that result was to be one of my two major problems that year. The other was short, annoying - _and American!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I staggered into Mr. Holmes's house in Cramer Street feeling even more frazzled than usual for a Friday, thankful that by some fortunate coincidence I had arrived on Miss Hellingly's baking day. Quite why Doctor Watson rolled his eyes when I and the maid bearing the delicious ginger-cake arrived at the same time, I had no idea. Someone had to hold the door open for the girl.

“Ah, LeStrade”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Long time no see.”

Doctor Watson may have muttered something like 'as far back as the last baking day', but I couldn't be sure. I sank into the chair while Mr. Holmes cut me a slice of heaven.

“You look exhausted”, he said. “Surely the King Street Robbery is not still a problem?”

I shook my head and bit into a delicious cake. My worries seemed to fall away, at least for a while.

“I have a difficult case”, I said. “You know that Mr. Disraeli took a pounding at the general election recently?”

“Yes”, Mr. Holmes said. “Neither the doctor nor I have much interest in politics and as tenants we cannot vote†, but it affects my business sometimes. Then there are of course my siblings.”

I knew that three of his family – two brothers and a cousin if I had it right - worked for the government, and had chanced to meet one of them here the one time. Randall, that had been the idiot's name. He had what was was undeniably one of the most slappable faces I had ever seen and that's from someone who works with criminals! And sometimes even with that snob Gregson, damn the fellow!

“There's this rule that politicos who have served more than a set time in high office get sent upstairs to the Lords”, I said. “All very la-di-da in my humble opinion especially as it'll only be those too unpopular to keep getting elected. But the rule is the losing party only gets to send up one fellow, and two of Mr. Disraeli's rejects both qualify.”

Mr. Holmes nodded.

“I take it that Mr. Gladstone is not prepared to make an exception?” he asked looking perplexed for some reason.

“No”, I said. “Do you know something about this already, sir?”

He shook his head and I wondered how he always managed to look like he had stopped midway through making himself presentable of a morning. At least he wasn't all preening like that Gregson.

“I was just wondering why Randall has not mentioned the matter to me”, he said.

“Small mercies!” Doctor Watson muttered.

I smiled. I knew that he too was not fond of Mr. Holmes's brother; at least we shared that in common.

“Both Mr. Michael Hazleton and Mr. Egbert Riseley are adamant that _they_ are entitled to the ermine”, I sighed. “Mr. Hazleton has the longer service but Mr. Riseley has some noble blood in his family tree. Mr. Disraeli is said to hate the pair of them – can't say I disagree – and I'll wager he'll enjoy stringing them along for a bit.”

I was interrupted by the maid bringing in the newspaper, so I waited until Doctor Watson had crossed to take it from her and she had gone before continuing.

“Your other problem?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“The station's got a visiting detective from America”, I sighed. “Lieutenant Frank Columbo, just starting out and a painfully keen tyro if ever there was one. He's just a pain! Questions questions questions, and I can't turn around without falling over him! And he looks like he fell off the back of a cart, though as he's a visitor to these shores I can't say anything.”

Doctor Watson glanced across at his friend for a reason that I didn't need to be a detective to work out. Mr. Holmes gave him a sharp look that made him blush.

“Going back to your first problem”, Mr. Holmes said still looking reprovingly at his friend, “why should an argument between two politicians concern a London sergeant?”

“Mr. Hazleton complained that someone shot at him when he was walking in the park near our station”, I sighed. “Most likely one of those cap guns; we don't shoot politicians in this country. More's the pity some would say!”

“I rather think that you might have to change that opinion”, Doctor Watson said from where he was reading the newspaper. “Mr. Hazleton has just been shot at a second time and has sustained a severe injury. He is expected to recover but it was a close-run thing.”

I sighed. Impossibly my life has just got even more complicated. Ah well, at least there was cake.

I wondered why Doctor Watson was smiling like that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The one thing that that snob Gregson and I had in common was that we shared the same boss, Inspector Fraser Macdonald. I don't think I've ever known anyone with such a complete and utter loathing of Mankind! I sometimes thought that Mr. Holmes viewed our species with detachment but he had nothing on the inspector, who made a point of hating everyone equally. But to be fair this did work to my advantage; other bosses would have gone against me because of my 'low breeding' as some of the snootier fellows called it but the inspector made a point of disliking everyone equally. Oddly enough it worked for him; he was feared but I had never yet found anyone with a bad word to say about him as a copper.

_(In fairness I have to say that unlike many I knew a bit of the inspector's background, and just why he was the way he was. Family, of course. And unlike many at his level he was often out on the streets; too many of the top brass seemed to think they should live behind their desks!)_

My boss's secretary Miss Sandra Couzens was also annoying in her own way, especially as she seemed to share some of his views. I would have suspected her of being interested in the fellow but he was married and more moral than the Archbishop of freaking Canterbury despite his terrible wife, while she was engaged and pretty much as high-minded.

“He has been waiting for you to get back”, she said as soon as I walked back into the station. “The lieutenant has been causing trouble. Again.”

I sighed. I had been gone for barely an hour!

“What is it _this_ time?” I asked plaintively. 

“He seems to be of the opinion that this Hazleton shooting is more than it seems”, she said. “You can go straight in; I told him that I knew you would be out today.”

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“Easy”, she scoffed. “Mr. Holmes's landlady's baking day; your 'friend' Mr. Gregson just 'went out for a stroll' - _and we both know where!”_

I scowled at her. Unlike that toffee-nosed git I was _not_ that predictable!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The inspector was in many ways the archetypal Celtic warrior; I always thought that he looked uncomfortable in his uniform. From the scowl on his rugged face he was having problems at home again. Many marriages hit the occasional rocky patch but his shrew of a wife was the sort who'd broadcast her side of things to anyone who couldn't run away fast enough. She'd tried to talk to me the one time and my already low opinion of her had somehow sunk even lower. And that's from someone who deals with vermin on a daily basis!

“LeStrade”, he growled. “Honest opinion. What do you think of our Yank?”

That was another of his good qualities. Too many of the top brass wanted to be only told how wonderful they were and how clever everything they did was; he wanted frankness and did not as some did come down on those who spoke the truth. Quite a few had learned the hard way that sycophancy got them only one thing, namely an even bigger scowl.

“He reminds me a bit of Mr. Holmes”, I said, “especially the untidiness. I think he's a lot cleverer than he looks, though.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I took him with me on the Carswell investigation last week”, I said, “and he spotted that one of the footmen knew something. He seems to know people, which is useful.”

“He thinks this Hazleton shooting is more than it seems”, the inspector said. “Can't stand politicians myself. The idiot's doctor says the wound was real enough; a couple of inches to the right and Mrs. Hazleton would've been in for plenty of peace and quiet.”

I smiled at the euphemism.

“Would you like me to go round and make inquiries?” I said. I had the usual ton of paperwork to do and such matters would normally be allocated to a constable, but as the visiting lieutenant's contact I currently had more street work than usual. And my boss had very fairly shifted some of my paperwork to others to help.

“Yes.”

That was a yes, then.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

One of the many, many annoying things about the Yank was his keenness. I hardly had time to get back to my desk before he was on to me.

“I made some inquiries as to Mr. Riseley, sir”, he said, far too eager for anyone at this time of a day (impossibly he looked even more bedraggled than Mr. Holmes). “He was attending a party at your Houses of Parliament the whole time. But he could have used a third party.”

“He likely would have done”, I had to agree. Mr. Riseley was one of those few but annoying anti-gun people who always refused to have anything to do with guns and was also reputedly highly-strung, having had a panic attack when someone had once fired a gun near him (not at him, worse luck). “But we don't usually shoot our political rivals in this country.”

He looked at me curiously.

“Small price to pay perhaps, sir?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, for keeping him in the news while this decision is being made”, he said. “Even if your Mr. Riseley has a rock-solid alibi people will still think as I said, 'third party'. A bullet wound for a few weeks might be worth a lifetime in your House of Lords.”

I did not know what was more annoying; his cynicism or the fact that he might well be right.

“How could it be proved?” I asked reasonably. “I can hardly accuse a top politico of lying, not in my position. They'd have me out before sunset!”

He looked at me shrewdly.

“Your friend Mr. Holmes is said to have some interesting friends”, he said. “Perhaps one of them might be of use?”

I looked at him suspiciously. What was he up to?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day the two of us went to one of the smarter addresses in Mayfair – seriously I could've fed my while family for a year on what one of these places must have cost to run a month! - where we met Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. The similarity between the former and the lieutenant had both the doctor and I hiding grins and Mr. Holmes looking suspiciously at us both. The doctor blushed and checked his watch.

“Half-past ten”, he said. “He should be here now.”

“Someone's coming”, I said, looking to where a smartly-attired delivery man was walking along looking at the various house names. Sure enough he reached 'Lion House', went up the steps and rang the bell. A footman answered and they had words, then the servant stepped back into the house.

“Is that not Mr. Riseley?” Doctor Watson asked as a second and somewhat rotund gentleman stopped in his progress along the side of the square just by the house. Mr. Holmes shook his head.

“An actor friend of mine disguised to look like him”, Mr. Holmes said. “Not that that politician is much better than our quarry but I knew that he would have a strong alibi just now.”

“What sort of alibi?” I asked.

“He is attending Lady Bracklesham's engagement party”, he said.

“Disgusting!”, Doctor Watson muttered. “Sixty if she is a day despite her claim to be forty-nine, and getting engaged to a young buck half her age.”

He did not notice that both the lieutenant and Mr. Holmes were smiling at his wide knowledge of the social scene. Then I recognized Mr. Hazleton coming to the door and the delivery man presumably telling him that he had to sign for the item in person. The politico was holding the notebook when he looked up and saw the figure of what he must have presumed was his rival just a few yards away on the pavement – a rival who had suddenly produced a gun and was aiming it straight at him. He yelped in horror, threw the notebook at the delivery man and turned to flee back into the house but.....

Ouch! Well, better the back than the front.

Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes immediately hurried over to the house and the two of us followed them; I noted that the delivery man and the shooter had both made swift exits and that Mr. Holmes whispered to me not to pursue the latter. The door to the house was still open as two footmen had helped the stricken man inside, and we all four piled in. Mr. Hazleton was sat on a large couch in the ridiculously large hallway (the size of my entire ground floor!), looking shocked.

“That bastard shot me!” he gasped.

“I am a doctor”, Doctor Watson said. “That wound must be attended to immediately. Let us get you to a room so you can be tended to.”

As I had suspected would happen, the man's face suddenly changed.

“Er, that is all right thank you”, he said. “I can send a servant to get my own doctor, Heath. He lives only a couple of streets away.”

“I suppose that that is understandable”, Mr. Holmes said. “Provided of course that the bullet was not poisoned or anything, you should survive.”

The politico went deathly pale.

“P... p... poisoned?” he gasped.

“Oh yes”, Mr. Holmes said. “Very fast-acting some of the latest ones; death follows in as little as a quarter of an hour if it is not removed and the wound cleansed. But you _may_ be lucky if you wait for your own doctor to arrive, assuming of course that he is available. Or you _may_ not.”

I could see the conflicting emotions on the fellow's face, and the moment that he cracked.

“Doctor?” he quavered.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I suppose that there were more pleasurable sights that a crooked politico pleading not to have his misdoings broadcast to the world. Somewhere. But I'd settle for this right now.

“This is disgusting!” Doctor Watson thundered at his patient. “I remove a bullet from your backside then I find that you have suffered no injury to your leg whatsoever.”

“But that rat shot at me!” Mr. Hazleton whined. “You must have seen him!”

“Seen who?” the lieutenant asked.

“Mr. Riseley”, Mr. Hazleton said. “He was right there with a gun. I saw him with my own eyes.”

“Rather unfortunately for you”, Mr. Holmes said, “I happen to know that Mr. Riseley is currently attending Lady Bracklesham's engagement party where he doubtless has any number of witnesses to attest his presence. Let alone the fact that that gentleman is terrified of guns and would never be capable of shooting one.”

“The worst thing is that Doctor Heath had to have been involved in this cover-up!” Doctor Watson snapped. “I shall be having words with his employers about such malpractice.”

“He will probably claim that Mr. Hazleton here paid him so to do”, Mr. Holmes said diffidently. “That would no doubt reduce the sanctions to be levied against him – _if_ he can provide proof of those payments.”

Judging from the sudden redness of Mr. Hazleton's face, I guessed that his doctor in question _did_ have proof of those payments. I heard the lieutenant manage to turn a chuckle into a cough.

“It is a pity that you were not prepared to suffer a little more pain for such a great gain”, Mr. Holmes went on. “Mr. Disraeli will no doubt nominate Mr. Riseley for elevation to the House of Lords, and you..... doubtless you will be in the 'Times' too. If perhaps for rather less salubrious reasons.”

Who knew that even politicos knew such language?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“How come you suspected him of lying about the attack?” I asked the lieutenant as we walked back to the station. 

He grinned slyly.

“Two things really”, he said. “First, never trust a politician. They're crooks both sides of the Pond and there's no trick they won't stoop to if if gets them to the top.”

“Second?” I asked.

“I was out with Constable Knowles while you were 'just happening' to visit your friend on one of his landlady's baking days”, he said (I scowled at him for that totally uncalled for if perhaps vaguely arguable observation). “We came through Arthur Square just as he was seeing his wife off in their carriage. Not a trace of a limp on him, despite his supposed near-death injury.”

“You knew all along?” I asked. He nodded.

“Mrs. Columbo said to always watch folks in power”, he said. “Like everything else, she's right about that.”

“She didn't accompany you on this trip?” I asked. He shook his head.

“She hates sea travel”, he said. “Luckily we live out west so I shall have plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time for what?” I asked.

“To plan the biggest bunch of flowers for when I get back”, he said. “Every woman loves to be wanted, sergeant.”

I made a mental note to buy Valerie a box of chocolates today. He was right on that.

Even if he did look even more scruffy and unkempt than Mr. Holmes!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Holmes was being disingenuous here. Like all his unmarried siblings he was registered to vote at Guilford Street but chose not to because he knew that it would increase his friend's sense of the financial gulf between them._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	22. Interlude: The Devil's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. The mark of a truly great man is that he cares for all – which in Mr. Lucifer Garrick's case means an unfortunate encounter just before dinner. And a happier (if sorer) one some time later!

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Not having a family as such I was able to please myself with my choice of house, and it would likely have surprised many who knew me that my residence, although in Bloomsbury, was a modest affair. I have never aspired to a large property and besides, having a small place meant that I was able to make do with servants who came in, cleaned and prepared meals, then left before I got home. And because everyone knew that I only had a small place I did not have to have people round at all, which suited me perfectly.

Especially when I was able to let Tiny have his way with me and carry me around the place on his horse-cock!

Despite being built like the Colossus of Rhodes my lover was one of the most modest of men, so when he started having problems he did not at first approach me. Fortunately one of the other servants who came in alerted me to what was going on and.... well, my first inclination was towards violence, but that would have upset my lover whose Sad Face was not something that I could face any time this millennium. It had to be done some other way.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I arrived home regularly ever evening at a quarter-past six, regardless of what national calamity I was dealing with at the time, which enabled my servants to have a hot meal ready for me (Tiny was the best lover that a man could have but he was no cook). So my servants were not expecting me home a full hour early that particular day, nor that I would let myself in via the back-door. I crept stealthily round to the kitchen where the cook Mrs. Faraday was working her usual magic while Claude Jenkins, my butler, was sitting at the table.

“That Little is as dumb as he looks”, he said airily. “I don't know what Mr. Garrick sees in him – well, except for his 'assets' down below.”

“Mr. Little is a thorough gentleman”, Mrs. Faraday said reprovingly, “and what he and the master get up to when we are not here is not our business. You have been going on at him again, haven't you?”

The butler sniggered. I seethed silently.

“He's such an easy target!” he snorted. “The master will tire of him one day and then he'll be out on the streets!”

I reminded myself that murder was still a crime, even against this lame excuse for a being. Hell, if Tiny wanted to leave me tomorrow I would still make sure that he was more than fine. He was a wonderful human being, at the other end of the spectrum from this pitiful excrescence.

“I saw him looking sad earlier”, Mrs. Faraday said. “Mark my words Claude Jenkins; you'll do yourself no good by going after him.”

“I quite agree.”

I stepped forward, and had the pleasure of seeing my soon to be former butler turn a deathly shade of white. I stared at him icily.

“So you _have_ been picking on my footman”, I said angrily. “Very well. You will leave this house instantly, Jenkins, and I will be advising your agency of my displeasure. The door is that way.”

He scowled but had no choice, and scuttled away to whichever hole he was crawled out of. I definitely caught Mrs. Faraday's smile before she turned back to her delicious food.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I still had to tell Tiny what I had done, but thankfully he was accepting of it. In fact, he was so accepting of it that he walked me up and down the stairs on his horse-cock. Twice.

Who needed to sit down any time soon?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	23. Case 36: The Life And Death Of The Spencer John Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. A face from the past brings an unusual problem for Holmes – can there really be 'the wrong sort of criminal'? A small matter that grew progressively darker and which required some irregular (illegal) methods to resolve it. Including another murder.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Criminals, as the saying goes, come in all shapes, sizes and strange disguises. And this case which started with a visit from someone whom we had helped out in a previous case would end with the untimely (but not undeserved) death of one of the upholders of the law, the fifth death in this dark case. Yet there was really no other way for it to end. Coming so soon after the comparative levity of the Hammerford Will business and the Hazleton 'rear-ending', it seemed doubly dark in that year of 'Eighty. 

It was August when a familiar figure graced our rooms in Cramer Street. It was Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov whom Holmes had helped clear over the theft of the 'Two Ladies' painting four years ago. He had changed quite a bit in those few years and thankfully his unfortunate attempt at a moustache had been sent to meet its Maker. Pleasantries were exchanged – Holmes made sure to again convey his thanks to the fellow's father for his help in the Tankerville Club business – before we got down to business.

“I will always be grateful for you help in clearing me over that painting, sir”, our visitor said. “Recently a rather curious matter has come to my father's attention and he wonders if you might take some time to look at it.”

“I would of course be delighted”, Holmes said. “Curious how, exactly?” 

“Have you read anything about the Spencer John Gang?”

“I tend to rely on Watson to keep me abreast of the papers”, Holmes grinned, before adding quite unnecessarily, “even if he spends far too long on those social pages of his!”

I wondered idly how much the likes of our visitor would charge for the removal of annoying bacon-stealing detective room-mates. And now Holmes was shaking his head at me for some reason. Harrumph!

“There were behind the Marylebone Station robbery two weeks ago”, I said not pouting in any way, shape or form whatever any resident wiseacre said. “That is their third successful haul or at least the third one that has actually been reported. The newspapers are speculating that there may have been more, although they often do that.”

“As I am sure you understand”, our visitor said, “my father would not last for very long in his trade if he did not keep a close eye on any potential rivals. He is concerned about this gang in particular.”

“Because he thinks that they may attack him one day?” I asked. Our guest shook his head.

“Because he is not sure as to whether they even exist!”

We both stared at him in confusion.

“The criminal fraternity is despite the way the newspapers portray it a very small one”, Mr Kuznetsov explained. “When a new gang appears it is commonly the case that we know everything about them in a matter of days, sometimes even hours. But this particular gang is either the most careful in existence or something is very wrong. My father has had agents spy out all the places associated with them and had found absolutely nothing. Until yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?” I asked.

“A young pickpocket, a Master Albert Dare, was found dead in a small warehouse in the docks”, our visitor said. “A note found on his body said that it was from the Spencer John Gang and that he had paid the price for trying to double-cross them.”

“You think that the note was false?” Holmes asked. Mr. Kuznetsov nodded.

“I knew the boy”, he said. “A rogue and a scamp but no harm in him. Besides, he was a loner; he never worked with anyone else. It just feels wrong.”

“As I once said to your father, impressions are important in your line of work”, Holmes said. “You think that this boy was killed solely to give the gang more credence. Would you go so far as to think that the gang is some sort of artifice created for an as yet unknown reason?”

“I am inclined to think that”, our visitor said, “but I cannot see who would benefit from such a subterfuge. There are more than enough such gangs out there just now; one more would make little difference.”

“That depends on the motives behind its creation”, Holmes said. “This sounds a most intriguing case sir, and you may tell your father that I shall give it my full and immediate attention. Tell me, did the late Master Dare have any relatives?”

“An older sister who scrapes a living selling matches and matchboxes on the street”, he said. “That is another complication in that it threatens to bring in the beggars, whom we obviously do not wish to cross.”

“That is understandable”, Holmes said. “Thank you for letting us know about this. We shall start our investigations right away.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes seemed unduly worried about this case I felt, and was clearly eager to progress it with all speed. Unfortunately I had to be in the surgery that afternoon so was unable to accompany him when he went to see both Gregson and LeStrade. I must have been getting better at reading my friend at least on a subconscious level, as for no particular reason I stopped on the way home to buy him a half-pound of his beloved barley-sugar. I suppose that I must have sensed in some way that he might need a boost.

Whatever my reasoning, it had been correct. Holmes accepted the barley-sugar with thanks and I thought I saw what looked suspiciously like a tear in his blue eyes. He was always so surprised when anyone gave him anything, even my daily transfer of at least half my bacon.

“Our friends could not help?” I asked as we waited for supper to be served.

“I think that they could”, he said darkly, “and yet could not.”

I stared at him in confusion. He sighed.

“I have had a trying afternoon and am not explaining things well”, he said. “This case worries me deeply, more so when I learned that Inspector Wright was the officer in charge of it.”

“What is unusual about that?” I asked. I did not like that inspector as a person but I presumed that he was a tolerable policeman in his line of duty. He had been promoted (and moved) earlier this year which showed a lamentable lack of judgement on someone's part but then I supposed that they had to get inspectors from somewhere. Both Gregson and LeStrade would I was sure make excellent ones but it was the best part of a decade before they would have enough service under their belts, and I knew that Holmes was dreading the competition between the two of them when that finally happened. Unless the Good Lord deigned to throw down another miracle and create two vacancies as he had done at sergeant level.

“Two things”, Holmes said. “First the death of young Master Dare occurred some distance off the inspector's patch; we both know how parochial the police are over such matters. Second and on a related point, the only time such cases are investigated by another area is when the case is in some way important enough to be moved _up_ the chain of command. Yet someone of relatively low rank has been brought in from outside the area.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

“I could understand if a superintendent or even a chief-inspector from outside had been assigned”, he said. “But I smell something off here. I do not think that either Gregson or LeStrade were straight with me even though I am sure that they both answered all my questions truthfully. The police service are a clannish lot and I think that they were hiding something.”

“Are they involved?” I asked, alarmed. He shook his head.

“They are both far too honest”, he said. “But I think that each _suspects_ something is afoot and is wily enough not to ask questions to confirm those suspicions. Both are married with young families, remember, and work in the sort of profession where 'accidents' can happen to those who rock the proverbial boat.”

Now I was really worried!

“Is there anything that I can do to help?” I offered. 

I had been sure that he would say no, but he surprised me.

“I need to look at all coverage of crime stories from the past two months in our old copies of the 'Times'”, he said. “Will you help?”

“Gladly”, I said.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“What do you think?” Holmes asked. “It was some hours (and several cups of coffee) later. My friend had refused to tell me exactly what he had been looking for, saying that he wanted my unbiased opinion for what little that was worth. 

“The tone of the Thunderer is definitely more hostile towards the police of late”, I said. “Especially as regards this Spencer John Gang; they are openly mocking of the police's failure to bring in even a single person associated with them.”

“I am glad that you noticed that”, he said. He looked tired but pleased at all my work. “As I said over the Cromartyshire case, it is so easy to find things when one knows what one is looking for.”

“A pity that the police cannot just handily place the Spencer John gang right in front of a large group of armed officers and then 'find' them”, I said lightly.

He looked at me somewhat strangely, I thought. As far too often I had the impression I had said something bordering on clever, and as far too often the certain knowledge that I would never be able to work out what it was until he decided to tell me.

“Yes”, he said thoughtfully. “But that would be far too easy.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov called round the next day to see how our investigations were progressing.

“Slowly for now”, Holmes said. “But there is something that your father could do, or at least employ someone to do, which may help bring matters to a head. The sooner that this matter is resolved, the better.”

“What is that?” the man asked.

“I fully expect there to be some sort of major event as regards this Spencer John Gang in the next few days”, Holmes said, “although regrettably I cannot predict exactly when or where. The end result however will be _very_ unpleasant. There will be four dead bodies, murdered in an assassination-style shooting.”

I looked at my friend in alarm.

“What do you need us to do?” our visitor asked. He of course was unperturbed by such a statement.

“I need you to have someone monitoring those bodies as soon as they hit the floor”, Holmes said. “I then need to know exactly what happens to them and in particular who is involved with their removal. I know that is a lot to ask but we are talking about a new and very dangerous type of criminal here. One which if it is allowed to continue unchecked will most likely threaten your own family. I am quite certain of that.”

“Not if we scotch it first!” the young man said fiercely.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After our guest was gone Holmes said that he was going out for the evening and asked whether I would come with him.

“Of course”, I said. “Where are we going?”

“To see a Mr. Silas Rosenstern.”

I glared at him. He had known full well that that name would mean nothing to me! He chuckled at my displeasure.

“I am sorry, Watson”, he said. “I think that a part of this case will most likely involve the forging of official documents. Mr. Rosenstern is a man of stern moral fibre and would not himself do anything to assist in a crime, but the other two gentlemen in the capital capable of his degree of artistry are less scrupulous. Fortunately I was able to do him a small service last year so I hope that he will feel inclined to consider my request.”

“But why would a gang need official documents?” I asked.

“They would not.”

I glared at him. At this rate he would be investigating his own death from beyond the grave, killed by an irate city doctor whom he had teased once too often! Trouble was, knowing him he might well succeed in it!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Silas Rosenstern operated out of a small and rather dirty looking curios shop on the edge of the East End. It was not so much run-down as almost run-over in its decrepitude but, I supposed, if the man was the master forger that Holmes proclaimed him to be then why would he spend money on a fancy shop-front? Holmes explained what he was looking for and the man – I suspected that he was of Jewish descent from his name and manner – nodded.

“The obvious question, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “Why should my colleagues not provide documents for people who pay for their services? Each man is his own conscience.”

“These documents will be fundamental to a new and very dangerous type of criminal”, Holmes said. “Either Mr. Smith or Mr. Best will be asked to create four sets of documents concerning people who are claimed to be members of the fabled Spencer John Gang.”

“Why would such a request not have come to me?” the forger asked.

“Because you alone among the gentlemen capable of this task always demand original documents before you will create copies”, Holmes said. “It is a clever safeguard against any serious criminal misuse of your talents; indeed in this instance it may have helped save your life. I believe that the people behind the Spencer John Gang, knowing that and wishing to avoid any risk in achieving their evil ends, would go instead to one of your colleagues.”

“You think that my colleagues would tell me of such a request?” the man asked.

“They might”, Holmes said, “once you tell them who is behind this. Such people would think nothing of adding one more death to prevent anyone talking; indeed I might almost wager that they have such a thing lined up. Another dead body would count to them as naught but a minor inconvenience towards achieving their goals. One can only have eternal safety in eternal silence, as the saying goes.”

“Do you know who is in this gang?” Mr. Rosenstern asked.

“The gang itself does not exist”, Holmes said. “It is a chimaera, created solely so its destruction can reflect honour and glory on a police service under constant pressure to achieve 'results'. Unfortunately, that will mean that some innocent people have to die so that the fabled Spencer John Gang can be seen to have been defeated, but as my irritating brother Randall so often says one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“All a fake?” I managed at last. He nodded.

 _“That_ was why our friends were so unwilling to talk about it”, he told me. “They suspected, but as I said policemen who rock the boat either do not get on or worse, they have 'accidents'. Also, as I said both of them have families to think of; some of whom are in the service and who could be targeted. Fortunately their silences spoke louder than any words; indeed I think that they both knew that.”

I was still stunned.

“This is a most serious matter, sir”, Mr. Rosenstern said. “I shall call on my fellow craftsmen this evening and have an answer for you by the morrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Holmes bowed, placed an envelope that I guessed contained some notes on the table and left. I gathered what was left of my wits and scuttled after him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Holmes was unfortunately proven all too right by the headline in the 'Times' the following morning. The four 'members' of the Spencer John Gang – Archibald Spencer, John Tallow, John West and John Woods – had met in a warehouse to plan their next robbery but an anonymous tip-off had led police to surround the place. There had been a shoot-out and all four were dead. Two officers had sustained minor injuries and the plans recovered showed that their next target was to have been the Middlesex home of the prime minister himself. 

“I wonder who they really were”, Holmes mused as he read the story himself, munching on his and half of my bacon as per usual. “I somehow doubt that they were attending an unusually-located Sunday School in such a location. Still, I am sure that Mr. Kuznetsov will soon let us know and that Mr. Rosenstern will come through for us as well. He has not failed me yet.”

“You did not mention what service you performed for him”, I said, buttering some toast. “Was it a real case?”

“No, an imaginary one”, he said airily. I glared at him.

“I can take my bacon back!” I threatened.

He immediately wrapped both his arms around his plate and stared at me as of I was the meanest mean breakfast companion ever. I sighed, glad that I had (as usual) quickly consumed my remaining two rashers otherwise I would have handed those over as well. I was so whipped!

“His daughter was dating someone whom he suspected of being undesirable”, he said. “I was able to prove that he was.”

“Undesirable?” I asked.

“Already married. To two wives. Living in back to back houses.”

I choked on my coffee.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Both the expected telegrams arrived just after luncheon and Holmes immediately fired off some of his own, two of which (I presumed) were thank-yous. An answer came back mid-afternoon to one of his messages and Holmes once again sent out, telling me that this time he expected someone to call in response to it. I was grateful that I was not needed at the surgery on today of all days and could be there to see justice being done. 

It would be, although not in the way that I had imagined. Shortly after dinner we heard a heavy tread from the corridor outside not unlike that of our friend LeStrade. The door opened to indeed reveal a policeman – but not one that I was at all pleased to see. It was Inspector Matthew Wright.

“Please be seated”, Holmes said amiably. “Doctor, can you take our visitor's coat?”

I would have grumbled about being relegated to cloakroom duties but something in Holmes's tone told me that there was more to his request than met the eye. I hung what was obviously a very expensive coat (for a mere inspector) on the stand and came to join my friend.

“What do you want?” our visitor demanded.

“That sort of tone to stop, for one thing”, Holmes said sharply. “You are about to be offered considerably more in the way of justice that your foul actions merit, sir. Be seated.”

The Inspector scowled but took a seat.

“Let me start by giving you four names”, Holmes said. “Albert Bass. Edward Jones. Edward Smith. Peter Smith.”

There was a definite flicker across the Inspector's face although he made a valiant attempt to cover it.

“Should those names mean something to me?” he asked.

“They are the four low-grade criminals whom you and your men dispatched to the next world recently”, Holmes said. “But not before you had replaced their identities with some of the Mr. Best's most excellent forged papers and 're-christened' them as members of the infamous Spencer John Gang.”

“I am sure that I do not know what you are talking about, sir.”

“Then allow me to provide you with four more names”, Holmes said affably. “These doubtless will be rather more familiar to you. Superintendent Lawrence Kinsberg. Superintendent David Dumbleton. Chief-inspector Edmund Heath. Chief-inspector Andrew Ames.”

The fellow had gone deathly pale.

“Is your memory improving, Inspector?”, Holmes asked dryly. “Or would you like me to mention the upstairs room at your station where the five of you met to congratulate each other this morning, having killed four relatively innocent young men?”

“They were criminals”, he said defensively. “Vermin!”

I was shocked by his attitude.

“They had families”, Holmes said firmly. “Much worse for you Inspector, they had _friends_. The sort of friends who do not take kindly to certain members of the police setting themselves up as judge, jury and executioner. Now listen carefully, because should you fail to do so I will feel not a single pang of conscience when there are further deaths in this matter. _Starting with your own!”_

He took a deep breath.

“Today is a Friday. The five of you have until mid-day next Friday to leave the country.”

“What if we refuse?” our visitor sneered. Holmes smiled.

“Doctor”, he said far too casually, “please be so good as to bring me the inspector's coat.”

I did as I was asked. Holmes turned the coat around and we could all see that there was a notable red mark in the middle of the back of it. I was relieved to see that it was just paint.

“You did not even see the man who placed that there today”, Holmes said softly. “Thus it will be that if any of you are here in a week's time, you will not see the second red mark – except that this one will be because you were shot in the back, as the likes of you should be. You were the instigator of this plot and your superiors were, I know, most pleased at its success, promising you a further promotion as soon as it could be facilitated. You will of course go and talk to them on leaving here, and each of them will find the same red mark on their own clothing. If there is a killing come mid-day next Friday it will be you, and there will be one every three days thereafter until your associates too are removed and the Metropolitan Police Service is all the better for it. You may leave.”

The man grabbed his coat and scurried for the door. I wondered if he might show some sense for once and take the warning.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A week later I found out that he had not. 

The following day four top officers resigned from London's constabulary, all 'for a new life abroad'. How very odd.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	24. Case 37: Around The Horne ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. In one of those cases which is linked to the one before, the Metropolitan Police Service is far from happy that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has made them look like a bunch of corrupt jerks just because.... well, they were a bunch of corrupt jerks. The answer is obvious – hit back against one of the detective's policeman friends. Bad move!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Of the two of us, I would have said that Watson was by some distance the more cynical. But when it came to those I dealt with in my cases ensuring that people received the justice they deserved, I knew that many of them would be far from happy with the results of my efforts. Fortunately I had the friendship of Mr. Kuznetsov whose displeasure irrevocably earned the recipient a brief glimpse of the Thames river-bed (concrete footwear provided free of charge, with or without request). 

However that left a large number of friends and acquaintances who might still be targeted by those sore at having been found out. Sadly once again, those in authority did not disappoint. Like Watson, I really would have liked to have been proven wrong on this for once but I was not – and it was an innocent friend of mine who found himself in the line of fire as a result.

Of our three main policeman friends the one for whom I feared most was Sergeant Stanley Hopkins. He was a tall and rather nondescript fellow of about forty years of age, and it was wrong of Watson to remark that we only saw so little of him in comparison with Gregson and LeStrade because Hopkins did not like (and was in fact mildly allergic to) cake. Well, arguably wrong. Sort of.

The first sign of trouble came just days after the ‘direct removal’ of the late and utterly unlamented Inspector Matthew Wright, who had conspired with four senior officers to create a fake gang of criminals who would then be captured by the brave boys in blue. Unfortunately this had necessitated that four villains be captured dead rather than alive, otherwise they would likely have talked, so four low-grade criminals had been rounded up, murdered, and planted with fake documents so that they could be shown to the press as the villainous gang-members. Because multiple murder is perfectly acceptable when it is being done ‘for the public good’.

I had found this shameful ramp out and had very generously given all five the opportunity of leaving the country, telling Inspector Wright that failure to do so would lead to them too being subject to a campaign of multiple murder, since they had deemed such a thing perfectly acceptable. The inspector had proven as slow to take the hint as he had been to show the least bit of humanity, with the result that he was now a late inspector while his four colleagues had had to make swift departures from England to avoid following him to the next world. 

Which led me back to Hopkins, who having longer service than his cake-loving rivals was about to apply for promotion to inspector. With one at that level and four even higher up gone one way or another, there would be quite a few vacancies – and more ominously, a lot of top policemen very angry with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I suppose that it was stupid of me to think that having demonstrated precisely zero humanity this far, the Metropolitan Police would not take the opportunity to dig themselves into an even deeper hole. Which they duly did.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was two days after Inspector Wright's final mistake in this world when Watson read me something from the 'Times'. 

“The Thunderer can smell a rat over one dead inspector and four even more senior officers all heading abroad at the same time”, he said. “It believes that these events are linked to the Service appointing one Superintendent Matthew Horne as a new Public Affairs Officer.”

“I suppose that that sounds better than a Cover Up All Our Blunders Like When We Murder Innocent People To Make Ourselves Look Good Officer”, I said not at all cattily. “More time spent avoiding those blunders would have been better, but I suppose that that was too much to hope for.”

Watson smiled and read on. Neither of us knew it, but we not that far away from our first encounter with the new Public Affairs Officer.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I have a problem, sir.”

I sighed heavily. Sergeant Hopkins had come round, as expected. As I said, it really would have been nice to have been proven wrong for once. However I had used the intervening few days following a certain recent appointment to initiate certain actions 'just in case' something like this happened (see also the sun rising in the east).

“What are they trying?” I asked wearily.

“You know that I had to put in a preliminary application for promotion last month, sir?” our visitor said.

“Yes”, I said. “Is there a problem?”

“Last week my mother was taken ill up in Roxburghshire, sir.”

_(I should probably have mentioned this before but Hopkins's and Watson's mothers hailed from quite close to each other, the towns of St. Boswell's and Jedburgh respectively, although they had never met. The two gentlemen had however become friends in London as a result of their Borderer connections, and Watson treated both his fellow countryman and his family for free. Because he was like that)._

“I applied for a vacancy that came up up there as well”, the sergeant explained, “but they said that I had to finish my application down here first because the Met would not release me otherwise.”

 _Devious_ , I thought. Something that was technically arguable but would certainly have been waived for any policeman not linked to a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and at a time like this.

“I would hazard that the processing of that application may somehow last so long that you will miss out on the Roxburghshire position?” I said.

He nodded glumly and scratched his ginger thatch. Not for the last time in my life, I decided that I needed to be clearer when laying down ground-rules to people. Specifically certain high-ranking police people. Who would very soon be regretting their foul actions, if only because this time it was going to hurt many of them personally.

“I can do something to help you”, I said. “I had an idea that something like this might occur, and I have set some things in train. Your superiors will not enjoy tomorrow's newspapers at all, I am afraid.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The headlines the following day did indeed not make pleasant reading for the new Public Affairs Officer of the Metropolitan Police Service. Some horrible person had leaked the truth about the Spencer John Gang to the 'Times', and they had naturally gone to Superintendent Horne for information on the subject. Yet for some reason the gentleman responsible for talking to the public had been 'unavailable for comment'. Even when some lucky journalist had ‘just happened’ across him on a Surrey golf course, having been tipped off that he was hid.... playing a round there.

Worse, however, was a statement from Scotland Yard that the whole story had been made up by the newspapers to try to discredit the brave boys in blue, and that the four senior officers who had gone - _not_ fled – abroad might return at any time. For their own sakes I hoped not; they were all being monitored and would not have made it off the ferry. 

I was not surprised either when the excrescence himself called at Cramer Street. Superintendent Matthew Horne lived down to his picture in the paper and then some; I was frankly amazed that he had been able to find the door-handle with his nose so elevated. He was about forty-five years old and not dissimilar to Gregson in appearance, but clearly with a much greater sense of his own consequence and the inferiority of those around (beneath) him.

 _”You_ are the source of these stories”, he sneered. “You will stop.”

“Why?” I asked.

That simple question seemed to flummox him. I supposed that like a certain lounge-lizard of a brother than I could mention, he was so used to his minions jumping to his every command that actually being asked a question was a novel experience for him. I wondered idly if there was a factory somewhere churning out excuses for humanity, and why so many of them seemed to enter my life. If there was, it was high time that said factory was blown to kingdom come!

“Because I have told you to!” he snapped.

It was downright annoying of Watson, out of sight behind the fellow just then, to hold up a card with 'Randall Mark Two' written on it. Especially because he was right and worse, knew damn well that he was right. That just made it even more annoying!

“I would mind your tone if I were you, superintendent”, I said, staring at my friend reprovingly. “The Metropolitan Police Service is not in my good books of late, and I have more than enough semantics and sophistry in my daily life as it is without adding you to the mix.”

“Sir, I protest!”

“If I had a face like yours, I would too”, I retorted, enjoying the way in which he spluttered at that. “The last senior policeman to sit in that chair was one Inspector Matthew Wright and he was offered a very fair deal, far too fair in the circumstances. He chose not to accept it. I look forward to seeing how far you will go in making the same mistake.”

He blinked at my words, clearly trying to right his suddenly topsy-turvy world view.

“Are you threatening _me_ , sir?” he asked disdainfully.

“I am merely setting out a list of what will happen over the next few days”, I said, “despite any efforts that you and your utterly disgraceful Service may make to stop them. Tomorrow for example the 'Times' will be running a story about how you physically abused cadets at Hendon College.”

“The public will not care”, he said firmly. “Mere boys!”

“Several of whom come from prestigious families who will be less than happy with your foul actions”, I said. “Although perhaps the public will take more interest in the next day's story, concerning the physical abuse that you inflicted on your first wife before she divorced you. The ‘Times’ has all the medical records, by the way.”

I could see that that made him uncomfortable, and pressed on. 

“Day Three will feature the fraudulent expenses claims that you made during your trip to France last year”, I said. “I am sure that even _you_ will be hard put to explain just how a whole evening in a brothel can be classified as 'entertaining a client' – especially as the 'client' in question was a fellow senior officer who is married to a rather eminent lady – well, he is married for now; I do not know how she will react when she reads that. She received the news by recorded delivery this morning, so we should soon know.”

He was now pale. Good, because there was more to come.

“Day Four will be particularly interesting”, I said, “as it will coincide with a file being handed to your current wife who as we both know is the sister of one of the few officers above you in what is called the 'pecking order'. Said file will concern a lady of rather questionable virtue in Belgravia - _and a baby!_

“You cannot do this!” he exclaimed. “This is just wrong!”

I glared at him angrily.

“You, sir, are a villain!” I said firmly. “It is like the old saying; the enemy at the gate is a thousand times better than the one already inside, working to destroy a Nation from within. Your Service murdered four innocent men solely because some senior officers wanted to look good, and may I say that they made a suitable choice in their attempt to cover up future wrongdoings in selecting a wrongdoer like yourself. Now we come to the price for my forbearance.”

I took a deep breath. Even the air tasted foul with this villain's presence in the room; I was thankful that Watson had moved across to open the window. Although his gesture about tipping our visitor out of it….. 

“Those four stories will appear whatever you do”, I said, fighting down a strong temptation to test Sir Isaac Newton’s theories. “Kindly understand that. However, the 'Times' _may_ receive a dossier for publication on the fifth day as well. It will make what has gone before seem as nothing, for it will cover the actions of some _twenty-eight_ officers of inspector rank and above. If you believe that being five officers short is a problem, try thirty-three. Note also that I have made arrangements that should there be any attempt on me or anyone even remotely associated with me, the documents _will_ reach newspapers in not just London but every major city in this land. Immediately!”

He scowled at me but stayed silent.

“You will resign your post”, I said, “and the Service will not choose to appoint a replacement. That it actually thought it needed someone to cover up their actions was shameful in itself; that they used public money to so do made it still worse. Also, Sergeant Hopkins will apply for and obtain the inspector's post in Roxburghshire. He did not deserve to be dragged into this sorry mess, and if you had any understanding of the concept of shame you would know why. You have four days, sir. Remember Inspector Wright - and use them wisely!

He managed a final scowl, then heaved himself out of his chair and was gone. Watson opened the other window to let some more air in, and I did not blame him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Thankfully for once the Metropolitan Police Service got the hint – mostly. Hopkins secured his promotion and came round to thank me before heading off to his native Roxburghshire; I would as things turned out see him up there one day not far into the future. Superintendent Horne resigned as the Public Affairs Officer and the post was not renewed for anyone else. 

Yes, I am afraid that I had to add that 'mostly'. As so often the Service tried to be clever by creating a 'new' role of 'Public Liaison Officer', and advertised it among its ranks only to find, surprise surprise, that there was only one applicant, the recently separated Superintendent Matthew Horne. However the decision was later reversed after some rather unsavoury revelations about him in the 'Times'. I mean, with the Deputy Commissioner's own daughter?

I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	25. Case 38: Burning Injustice ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. An utterly horrible case involving the darkest of dealings in rural west Gloucestershire. Can the great detective find what happened to one of the most hated men in the Forest of Dean? And should he even try?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic mention of child abuse, and of a really horrible death.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the many criticisms levelled at Watson over the years was he seemingly never published cases where I had failed. There were however many cases that were 'failures' in the sense that my client was not satisfied with the outcome yet justice had still been served (the recent Hammerford Inheritance case, for example), and this was another such. It was also one of the most horrible cases that we had ever had to deal with; like the Dingwall, North Elmham and Marlow cases I felt nauseous when I made the few notes about it for my personal files. I advise the reader to not go beyond this point if they have eaten a heavy meal recently, lest it decide to put in an unannounced reappearance.

It all seemed so normal when it started on a bright but cold day in early October. There was not much in the news; a rates rebellion over in Ireland and the ongoing mess that was the Afghan War which at least seemed to be reaching a conclusion. I had thought to have another quiet day in Cramer Street but instead Watson and I were to travel across England and, it seemed, almost back in time.

Miss Hellingly's maid Clara knocked and entered with a card. I took it, thanked her and read the name.

“'Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh, Esquire, of Coleford in the County of Gloucestershire'.”

“I am surprised that you cannot deduce everything about the fellow from that”, Watson snarked.

“You mean apart from the fact he is wealthy, about sixty years of age, insufferably proud, dyes his hair, walks with a limp and has an unfortunate preference for the colour burgundy?” I shot back.

He stared at me as I bade Clara show the caller up.

“You cannot know that from just the card!” he protested.

Actually I had seen the fellow alight from his very expensive carriage when I had gone to open the window a few minutes earlier. But Watson did not need to know that. Besides, he was so glorious when he pouted his annoyance!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The pout grew even winder when a portly gentleman wearing a virulent plum-coloured suit and an even more unfortunate burgundy and white striped shirt limped into the room, looked disdainfully at us both then sat down without even being asked. I do not know what appearance he had been striving for when he had got dressed that morning but I was fairly sure that 'hot-air balloon' had not been it. Or at least I hoped as much!

“I read in the paper that you can find things”, he said curtly. “My boy Wilson has gone missing.”

“Have you reported the matter to the local constabulary?” I asked, wincing as the fire wafted his cologne in my direction. He had applied enough to risk catching fire, although I was already beginning to think that that might not have been a bad thing.....

Watson's influence on me was getting worse, damnation!

“I do not trust the local copper, Rose”, he said. “I want you to find him.”

Callers far less rude than this excrescence had been very firmly shown the door in the past, and I would have done just that had I not detected a subtle change in Watson. He had narrowed his eyes at our unpleasant visitor as if he recognized him from somewhere. 

This needed looking into.

“I am currently awaiting news from a government case that I have been working on”, I told our guest. “I expect it some time today, no later. If it comes soon enough the doctor and I will come down to Gloucestershire at once, otherwise we will be there tomorrow. Your card says that you live in a village called Coleford?”

“Three miles east of the place, near Speech House Road Station”, he said. “Only big house in the area, of course. Everyone knows it.”

“We shall be there today or tomorrow, sir”, I said with a smile. “You have my word on that.”

He grunted, looked disapprovingly at Watson, stood and left without so much as a goodbye. I waited until he was gone then looked pointedly at my friend.

“There was something about that fellow”, I said, “apart from his long list of shortcomings as a member of the human race. What was it?”

He looked troubled.

“That article in the 'Times' yesterday”, he said. “The one about the West Gloucestershire orphanage.”

I thought to the Baker Street Orphanage which I funded, and which I had not yet got round to telling Watson about. Now was not the time but I would have to do it soon. My stepbrother Campbell was I supposed right about my keeping unnecessary secrets from my friend, although I would of course not tell him that as he would have become even more insufferably smug. I hated smug people.

“What about it?” I asked.

“A Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh was one of the trustees there”, he said. “I remember the unusual name. You know how newspapers are these days; there was all sorts of suggestion and innuendo but it boiled down to the fact that the place was closed down just before an inspection that was expected to show all sorts of bad practices.”

And now one of the men behind those 'bad practices' had himself disappeared, I thought. Probably _not_ a coincidence.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I allowed our client a three hour start before we followed him to Paddington Station and a train west. 

“I wonder at the name of this place”, I said, looking at our ticket. Speech House Road Station was on a small system called the Severn & Wye Railway, but the ever-efficient Great Western had provided through tickets with instructions to change at Gloucester and Lydney.

“The Forest of Dean is one of those old areas which has some laws all of its own, like the New Forest in Hampshire”, Watson said. “I think that the Speech House was a sort of local parliament.”

“One only hopes that the locals are less unfriendly than Mr. Hoxhaugh”, I smiled. “Especially considering what a low bar that is!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Fortunately the Speech House turned out to have been converted into a local inn, which relieved us both as it meant that we would not have to be with the unpleasant Mr. Hoxhaugh any more than necessary. Although when we were checking in I noted the receptionist starting at my name. I would have commented on it but she seemed to have something wrong with her face from the way in which she was looking at me, so I let it pass. 

Watson seemed to have acquired a cough somewhere along our journey.

Mr. Hoxhaugh had been right when he had said his house was near the station; it was actually within sight of the hotel. But we were lucky; he had gone off to be rude to someone else so we left a note saying that we had arrived, then returned to the hotel. Swiftly.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we travelled into Coleford where I decided to seek out the local policeman and find out just why Mr. Hoxhaugh had not trusted him over looking for his son. The Forest was a strange area to describe; it had a sort of pastoral, almost rough beauty, but it felt a very clannish area and although I did not feel unwelcome I did feel as if we were being watched. Constantly.

I had the same feeling about Constable Edwin Rose at the police station in Coleford. I thought (but wisely did not say) that he looked like one of the foresters who someone had put in a police uniform and stopped there. He too was not unfriendly but I had the distinct impression that he was on his guard. Although like everyone else he was more than ready to let us know what he thought of our client.

“I doubt you'll find a man in Gloucestershire with a good word to say about him!” he said scornfully. “He owns a large part of the Forest including the mines, and he always puts money first and people second.”

“He seemed to think that you might not put out your best endeavours to find his son who has gone missing”, I said mildly. “I am sure he is wrong on that, of course. What can you tell me about Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh?”

It was infinitesimal but I caught it; the slightest shift in his eyes. He knew something, or at least thought that he knew something. 

“An apple that didn't fall far from the tree”, he said. “An only son and he acted like it, always swanning about the place. Talk is that he took a wedge of his dear old dad's money and high-tailed it to the United States; the old man's just making a fuss to cover it all up.”

I noted that 'acted'. For some reason the constable viewed Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh in the past tense. Which led to the question, why?

“There was an item in the paper about the orphanage in Gloucester”, I said. “I believe that the Hoxhaughs were involved there?”

“There's little west of the Severn they're not involved in”, the constable snorted. “That was Mr. Wilson's first project; of course he messed it up.”

I thought for a moment, then thanked the constable for his time and left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“There is something dark in this case, is there not?”

Watson looked at me, clearly troubled. He really was reading me too well these days.

“I was thinking”, I said. “This huge forest. All those acres in which to hide a body.”

His eyes widened.

“Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh?” he asked. 

I nodded.

“I also think that I know how it was done”, I said. “This will take some handling. We need to go down to Chepstow.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because that is over the border into Monmouthshire”, I said, “and I believe that any telegram sent from the Forest would be read.”

“We are not in any danger?” he asked, clearly worried now.

“I do not think so”, I said. “But if we are to achieve a resolution of this case, at least as far as it can be resolved, then we will need to tread carefully. This is one of the cases where the difference between justice and the law will be a wide one indeed.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We spent the next week in the area, clearly still being observed by several of the locals. I indulged Watson's passion for history and we visited the famous abbey ruins at Tintern as well as several of the Marcher castles. 

On our last day we went into Coleford immediately after breakfast. I suspected – and I was to be proven right on this – that Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh would be arriving to the hotel as soon as he got the telegram that he was set to receive, which could not be until after the post-office opened at nine. Partly to avoid him we went to the police station, where Constable Rose was surprised to see us.

“Mrs. Davies from the post-office has just called”, he said. “Mr. Hoxhaugh received a telegram from his son in America, saying he’s starting a new life out there.”

He looked dubiously at me. As well he might.

“A mile south of the Speech House”, I said slowly, “and within sight of Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh's palatial abode, there are a number of charcoal stacks.”

He should have looked confused at my words – Watson certainly did – but as I had known he would, he flushed bright red.

“Sir......”

“I know all”, I said. “You planned this well, all of you, but you failed to account for a sudden change in the wind. A charcoal stack is an excellent place to dispose of a dead body given enough time, especially when one considers the chemicals inside said body, but you left it there and the change of wind meant that it did not burn.”

The policeman looked horrified.

“You mean....”

I shook my head.

“I went there last night and restarted it”, I said. “This time it burned properly. It is done.”

He hung his head. Watson looked between us, clearly bewildered.

“Thank you, sir”, the policeman said quietly.

“I cannot condone murder”, I said, “yet..... I have always sought to apply justice rather than the law. Even if that involves the occasional untruth.”

I could see the light come on in his eyes.

“The telegram! _You?”_

I nodded.

“I wired a friend of a friend in the United States and he had the message sent from a telegraph office near the docks in New York”, I said. “Goodbye, constable. We have been long enough in your Forest.”

I bowed and left, Watson scurrying after me.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“So that was why you slipped out last night”, he said once we were on the little branch-line train down to Lydney†. 

I nodded.

“They _murdered_ Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh?” he asked. “But why?”

“First, the 'they'”, I said. “In this case we are talking a large number of men of the Forest, probably some women as well. They must have waylaid him on his way back from Gloucester and taken him to his death. Burning alive. A horrible way to go, and yet....”

He looked at me, still confused.

“Yet arguably deserved”, I said.

“What could he have done to deserve so horrible an end as that?” he asked, clearly shocked at my words.

“As well as setting up that fake telegram, I wired to Luke for a copy of the report into that orphanage”, I said. “Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh was not just misappropriating funds from the place. He was also abusing the young boys and girls therein.”

He looked at me in horror.

“The report was only a preliminary one”, I said, “and Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh managed to get the full one delayed until his son could leave the area. However someone connected with the Forest must have leaked it, and the men and women whose children could themselves have been victims, indeed may have been..... they hated the Hoxhaughs already and this was the final straw. The traditional practices that the father so scorned as not making him enough money have made an end of his son and his lineage, and likely an end of him too if he keeps on the way he is.”

Watson could not find any words to respond. Instead he came and sat next to me and we leaned into each other, seeking comfort as we left the dark woods behind us.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh the elder did not live long enough to test the local people's already frayed tempers, dying the following year. His estate passed to a distant cousin who much preferred the old ways of doing things, and things returned to normal in the quiet forest. Except for the remains of one charcoal stack a mile south of the nearest road, beside which there were some burnt coins and a charred ring that had once been gold. All that remained of a man who had thought that he was above justice, and had been sent to burn in the fires of hell in the knowledge that no, he had not been.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† This part of the Severn & Wye Railway is now mostly the preserved Dean Forest Railway, running from Lydney and the main rail network up to Parkend. There are plans to extend it to Speech House Road Station where Holmes and Watson alighted._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	26. Case 39: A Study In Scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. The Victorians were fascinated by the supernatural. This case includes a man whose ghostly visions proved fatal, and ends with someone fatally passing the potatoes when asked.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Upon reading some of the letters that I received from my loyal readers, I often had the distinct impression that they thought my detective friend was off solving matters of national import every other day and that I was frankly being a mean meanie from Meanie Town in not sharing all these cases with them. While it is true that there are still some such that cannot be made public without the most unpleasant diplomatic consequences - national _and_ international, I might add - the vast majority of my friend's work was mundane. 

I had spent that winter both sorting through Holmes's copious files – the fellow kept records of everything, just not in any order – and finding the time in between that and my work to slowly eke out a passable transcription of the 'Gloria Scott' case. I dreaded having to show it to the great man himself and although he knew of my progress (or lack thereof) he fortunately did not press to see it. I found choosing the right words incredibly difficult and more than once blessed the 'Strand' magazine for their understanding over my failure to keep to anything remotely approaching a schedule. It was the end of November before the story was finished or at least presentable, and Holmes having checked it through I dispatched it to the magazine, frankly glad to see the back of it.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was the Friday at the end of the first week in December and I had returned from my rounds footsore and tired. I had been working in the surgery and taking few visits as of late, but today I had covered for a fellow doctor whose patients had been spread the length and breadth of our fog-girt city and it had been an effort to get round to them all let alone hearing the refrain _'you_ are not Doctor Windlesham!' as if I might in some way not have been aware of that fact! Plus the extra traffic engendered by the approaching festive season had slowed me down, and unusually I did not find it in me to share with the rising sense of Yuletide merriment. 

Returning to our rooms in Cramer Street I was overjoyed to find a hot cup of coffee on the table. I downed it happily, sighing in contentment once it was gone.

“That was actually mine.”

I jumped. The angle meant that I had not noticed Holmes in his high-backed chair.

“I am so sorry”, I said, realizing to my horror that I had come between him and caffeine and might as a result soon be practising my medical skills upon myself. “I did not....”

“But you clearly needed it more than me”, he said with a smile. “I shall make myself another one and you should get yourself out of those wet clothes. Then I can tell you about a new case that I have been offered.”

I nodded in excitement although I marked that he did not say that he had actually taken the case. I hurried to my room and removed my wet layers, trading them for a rub-down with a towel, my pyjamas and my favourite dressing-gown. By the time I returned to the room there was another cup of coffee, this time by my fireside chair. I hesitated.

“That one is yours”, Holmes smiled. “Sit down, old friend.”

I frowned at the 'old' – I had barely turned twenty-seven and was little more than two and a half years older than him, for Heaven's sake! - but sat down to wait for his news. He sipped his coffee, took a barley-sugar out of a small bag on the table by his own chair and sucked on it happily.

“A Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley from Essex called on me today”, he said, “and would like me to investigate possible supernatural happenings in his home.”

“You investigate the paranormal?” I asked, surprised. There had of course been such an element to our recent Scottish case but it had been largely incidental to the attempted murder of poor Ceawlin Musgrave.

“I suspect that the cause is of this world rather than the next in origin”, he said, “otherwise I would not be interested. But the case has several intriguing aspects to it and I think that as a budding author it might appeal to your good self.”

I blushed. 

“Pray tell me about it”, I said.

“Mr. Wriothesley owns a large property in Essex close by the River Thames”, he began. “It is built in the site of an old monastery called Beaumont which was a sub-house to the great abbey at Waltham, the last of such to fall under Henry the Eighth's axe in the year fifteen hundred and forty.”

I smiled as the warmth from the fire seeping into my bones. My interest in history was I would admit patchy – some eras fascinated me while others were just dull - but I could have listened to Holmes reciting the business directory to hear that rich, deep growl. And there was a lot to be said for a warm fire, solid walls and heavy curtains while outside London's cold streets froze.

“The abbey like so many others was sold and eventually a private house was built on the site using many of the stones from the old building. Everything was swept away except a cloister and a small chapel onto which the new building was added. The chapel continued in use for the house's new owners.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. belatedly remembering. “Wriothesley. Was not he connected with Shakespeare in some way?”

He smiled at my enthusiasm.

“The family like many at the time split over religion”, he explained. “Mr. Zebediah's ancestors came from a Protestant branch and were cousins to Henry Earl of Southampton† to whom certain of our greatest writer's sonnets were dedicated. That was probably just as well as things turned out; that nobleman's involvement in the Essex Plot nearly brought about his demise although Queen Elizabeth eventually granted him clemency. I believe that Mr. Zebediah's own ancestor, foreseeing the disaster, was wise enough to present the Queen with a beautiful new dress shortly before the plot was uncovered. He knew his mark; his side of the family escaped unscathed.”

“So why does the descendant of an Elizabethan nobleman need the services of London's greatest consulting detective?” I asked lightly.

He looked at me in amusement. I silently cursed myself, wondering since when had I taken to putting my foot into my mouth like that (my unhelpful conscience really did not need to chip with that 'again'!). Fortunately he refrained from adding to my discomfort and continued with his story.

“About three weeks ago Mr. Wriothesley, who lives alone, was about to turn in for the night when he heard the sound of a bell outside. Upon attaining the window he observed a figure in red moving from the house to the Chapel into which it disappeared. He immediately came down and with his butler made his way to the Chapel, only to find it locked and undisturbed.”

A figure in red?” I asked dubiously.

“Beaumont Priory was home to the Scarlet Friars, an order much favoured by the Pope”, he explained. “They were technically vassals of the French king, the English Crown having gifted the estate to King Louis the Ninth some three centuries prior. That saved them in the short term but when Valois and Hapsburg fell out in 1540, King Henry the Eighth seized the opportunity to have the place closed down. Unlike most abbeys they did not go without a fight and the last abbot, a Frenchman, was dragged away shouting that his order would one day reclaim what had been taken from them.”

“I did not think that you believed in ghosts”, I observed. He smiled.

“The Beaumont estate is a valuable one”, he said, “and since he is both unmarried and nearly forty-five years of age Mr. Wriothesley has been looking to its succession. He has a brother Zechariah but the two most definitely do not get on so Mr. Zebediah has adopted as his heir a distant cousin, one Master Wilton Farnsworth. The boy is sixteen years old so cannot inherit as of right for another five years and our client is concerned that someone – either his brother or agents acting for him – is trying to scare him into an early grave so that they could strip the estate bare in the interim. He does have a weak heart.”

I felt an inexplicable pulse of pleasure at his use of 'our client' rather than 'my client'. 

“I do not see what he expects you to do about it, though”, I said.

“Presumably he hopes that I can find some evidence of his brother's perfidy”, he said, “so the latter can be persuaded to cease his activities. We would have to spend a couple of days there if you have no objection.”

I smiled.

“I would be delighted”, I said.

“Good”, Holmes said with the hint of a smile.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we departed from Fenchurch Street Station in a city still wreathed in the seemingly endless fog which seemingly felt the need to stay with us the length of our journey on the London, Tilbury & Southend Railway. We finally arrived at Beaumont Road Halt where with some effort we procured a cab to take us the rest of the way to the Priory. We passed through the tiny hamlet of Beaumont which was little more than two rows of mean cottages on a hill overlooking a Thames that I could not see but could definitely (and unfortunately) smell. 

On our arrival at the Priory we found the place all a-bustle. An officious-looking police constable came out of the front door to wave us away.

“We don't need no more sightseers!” he snapped. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was expecting us this morning”, Holmes replied crisply. “Is there a problem, constable?”

The policeman eyed my friend up and down. I could perhaps understand that; despite the still air my friend had once again contrived to look a windblown mess.

“Housekeeper said he was expecting some toff from the smoke”, he said rudely. “I suppose you can.....”

“Constable!”

I looked up, relieved to see the familiar tall figure of Sergeant Gregson. The constable looked distinctly put out at his arrival but said nothing and sloped off, presumably to find someone else to be rude to.

“Come in, gentlemen”, Gregson said ushering us through the door. “Sergeant Pelham is in charge of the case as this is his patch but the victim asked me here, presumably for much the same reason that he asked you.”

“Victim?” I asked. Gregson nodded.

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was found dead by his valet at nine o' clock this morning”, he said gravely.

I was stunned. Holmes though did not seem that surprised.

“I do not see why he would employ a police sergeant from a central London station when he had his own constabulary to hand”, he said as we entered. Gregson grinned.

“He came to our station before he called at your place”, he said. “He wanted to check you out and see if you were all he had been told about.”

“By whom?” Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

“His cleaning-lady works at the station where they had the Ricoletti case a few years back”, Gregson offered. “Small world, eh? She moved here to be nearer her sick sister. When Mr. Zeb wanted an investigator she told him about your solving that case.”

“Small world indeed”, I muttered.

“How did Mr. Zebediah die?” Holmes asked as we entered the lounge and sat down. A butler brought Gregson a coffee and quietly whispered to him that he would fetch two more for us (I noticed my friend's eyes light up at that) before leaving. The sergeant waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Heart-attack”, he said. _“Allegedly.”_

“You believe otherwise”, Holmes said.

“I know that he had a heart condition”, our friend said, “but there is something about the case that seems fishy. That and I really can't stand his git of a brother!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had thought Gregson a bit harsh in his assessment of Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley but after only a few minutes with the fellow I revised 'a bit harsh' to 'undeservedly generous'. The younger Mr. Wriothesley was an unctuous little man, a bald-headed oik just oozing fake sympathy for a late brother whose estate he would be responsible for during the next five years. I felt certain that he would take full advantage of that fact and quite hoped that he was indeed guilty.

“So, so sad”, he said wrapping his hands around each other. “Poor dear Zebediah. But then he always did have a weak heart. It runs in the family, you know.”

Holmes nodded sympathetically. I wondered at giving the annoying fellow a sudden shock....

“Did he talk to you about the apparition?” my friend asked, shaking his head at me for some reason.

“I am afraid that I do not believe in ghosts”, Mr. Wriothesley said smiling faintly. “My brother always did have an over-active imagination.”

“Quite”, Holmes said, standing up. “I am sure that Sergeants Gregson and Pelham will do everything in their power to bring the investigation to a swift conclusion. It was just unfortunate that your late brother chose this particular weekend to call on my services.”

“What services might those be?” Mr. Wriothesley inquired squinting at him over his curious half-moon spectacles.

“I am a consulting detective, sir.”

I did not imagine it. The portly fellow definitely flinched.

“It is just that your brother promised to put us up for one night”, Holmes said, “and it fitted in perfectly in that our landlady is having minor repair work done to our rooms. I had promised her we would not return until late Sunday evening.....”

“Think nothing of it”, Mr. Wriothesley declared. “Of course we shall be delighted to put you up for tonight. It is the least I can do to honour dear Zebediah's memory.”

Holmes bowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I did not know there was renovation work being done on our rooms this weekend”, I said later when we were walking in the garden.

“There is not”, Holmes said shortly. “But I wanted to look further into this case. Gregson may have his failings but he has good instincts. If he suspects foul play then it is most definitely worth investigating.”

We entered the cloister and walked to the door of the Chapel. When we reached the door he drew out a huge old key but did not immediately open it. Instead he ran his hands up the hinges of the door.

“Interesting”, he muttered.

“What?” I asked. He unlocked the door.

“What do you hear?” he asked as he pushed it open.

I listened carefully but could hear nothing and said so. Holmes shook his head.

“Sometimes there is something in nothing”, he said mysteriously. “This by the way is one of only three keys to the chapel and was always kept in the possession of the late Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley. The second is held by his lawyer and the third was in the possession of his heir away at school.”

“So no-one else could have entered the building”, I reasoned. “Unless the lawyer was in on it.”

He looked at me thoughtfully then ushered me back outside. He gestured to a small side-door next to the chapel door.

“That is the only other way out”, he said. “A small room used by the Chapel's own priest in times past. It is currently occupied by the groundsman while his own house undergoes repairs.”

“Did he hear or see anything?” I asked.

“No”, he said. “He was woken up when Mr. Zebediah came down to check out what was happening, but could not help. His room does have a window but as he sleeps not far from the door it seems impossible that anyone could have left the cloister that way without waking him.”

I did not see where he was going with all this but at that moment a cab pulled up outside the main door and disgorged a small figure, barely visible through the light mist. The constable on duty put an arm around him and led him inside.

“That must be young Master Wilton Farnsworth”, I said. “Gregson said he was going to summon the lad back from his school. He does not look much of an lordling to me.”

“A fine homecoming for the boy”, Holmes observed. “I should like to speak with the housekeeper alone, if that is all right. Could you take a walk and meet me back here in an hour? I think that the town of Carminster is about a mile to the south; you might go and buy some toiletries there to make our stay here a little more comfortable.”

I was surprised (and not a little peeved) at being dismissed in this way but I supposed that he must have had his reasons. I nodded and walked off into the mist.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Was your talk with the housekeeper informative?” I asked him in his room later as I waited for him to change for dinner.

“Look in the drawer by the fire and see what I found”, he smiled, fiddling with a cuff-link. 

I did and found a single red satin glove. I did not see at first but then it hit me.

“You found the priest's clothes!” I exclaimed.

“I found all that remains of them”, he said. 

“But how did you know where to look?” I asked.

He finished dressing and turned to smile at me.

“I found it in the one place where I knew to look for it”, he said cryptically, before starting for the door.

_I hated it when he did that!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Dinner was a tense affair with Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley clearly on poor terms with his new charge. I supposed that it had to be difficult especially for the boy; all that money but he had to yield control over it to a relative he very clearly disliked. I was glad when it was all over and we could retire to our rooms.

Gregson reappeared the following morning only to vanish again after a swift conversation with Holmes. When we met in the cloister soon afterwards I asked him what was afoot.

“Twelve inches”, he said looking puzzled. “You told me that yourself!”

“I meant, have there been any developments?” I growled.

“If Sergeant Gregson can successfully motivate the local constabulary to co-operate”, he said with an irritating smile, “and our excellent telegraphic service lives up to my expectations, then I expect to provide you with a murderer by this evening.”

“I thought you said that you knew who it was?” I challenged him.

“My knowing and my being able to prove are two different things”, he said. “But if all goes to plan dinner tonight should be quite interesting.”

It was.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Gregson arrived back at just after four o' clock and I hoped from the copious amount of papers he brought with him that his quest had been successful. He and Sergeant Pelham both sat down to dinner with us and Holmes mentioned that he and I would be departing on the evening train directly afterwards.

“We shall miss you”, Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley said insincerely. “Will we not, Wilton?”

The teenager huffed. I smiled to myself. 

“It has been a fascinating case”, Holmes said helping himself to potatoes. “I have heard that modern crime fiction novels are quite fond of murder disguised as a heart-attack, but in real-life it is surprisingly rare.”

You could have heard a pin drop. We all stared at him.

“Murder?” Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley said at last.

“You of all people should not look surprised”, Holmes said reprovingly. “You killed him.”

I thought for a moment that the man was going to follow his brother out of this world by giving up the ghost. 

“That”, he sniffed”, “is a scurrilous and baseless accusation, sir.”

“Hardly baseless as I can prove it”, Holmes said dryly. “Certainly not scurrilous as it is quite true.” He put down the potato bowl and looked around the table. “Pass me the salt please, Nathan.”

“All right”, the teenager said and handed it over.

Holmes looked triumphant and I could see Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley putting his head in his hands. Then it struck the boy.

“Who is Nathan?” he said, far too late. 

Holmes turned to the two sergeants. 

“Gentlemen”, he intoned, “allow me to present Mr. Nathaniel Wriothesley, second son to the gent... to the _personage_ at the far end of this table.”

The boy looked panicked and stared at his father.

“You fool!” Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley ground out. “You bloody fool!”

“It was well-planned”, Holmes said. “When it became clear that Zebediah Wriothesley was looking for a possible heir his brother first offered his own elder son, knowing because of the rift between them that that such an offer would be refused. He then did some 'research' to discover a distant cousin whose parents had died and was in danger of being dispatched to the workhouse in Southend. The two brothers rarely met so the victim could not know what his other nephew looked like. Master Wilton Farnsworth alias Master Nathaniel Wriothesley duly settled in to the life of heir to a great estate, and might in time have made a decent fist of it.”

“Except of course, his father was not minded to give him the chance. Knowing that if the boy inherited before his majority then he himself would get control of the estate – and I am sure it would have been well milked if not all but destroyed in those short years – he arranges for the visions of a man crossing the cloisters to the old chapel, the 'ghost' of a Scarlet Friar.”

“How did the 'ghost' disappear?” I asked. Holmes turned to me.

“You will remember that when I pushed open the chapel door, I asked you what you heard.”

“But I did not hear anything!” I objected.

“Exactly”, he said. “We had been told that the door was used once a month for services yet it did not creak at all. It had been well oiled so that it would open silently.”

Holmes stared icily at Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley and his son, who had edged round to table to be close to his murderous father. I would have gone in the opposite direction from the look on the latter's face, especially with cutlery on the table.

“On the night of the murder you made sure that one of the maids took a message to the groundsman”, Holmes told the villain. “You waited outside the door then appeared behind her in your costume just as she was leaving. She screamed and fainted, and you had time to go through the chapel door and lock it with your son's key before the groundsman could emerge to investigate. You changed and slipped out of the back of the chapel from where you emerged 'from a walk'. Having calmed the maid and reported the matter to your brother you returned to the chapel, then retrieved your costume and went to your room. Where you made your sole mistake.”

He produced the single red glove with a flourish.

“You doubtless planned to destroy the costume”, Holmes said. “However you were disturbed and you had to hastily shove the whole thing into the chest that stands at the foot of the bed. Once you were alone you retrieved it and burnt it – but by the workings of Providence one of the red gloves remained in the chest undetected. I think that you will find it hard to explain how a Scarlet Friar's costume glove came to be in _your_ bedroom.”

I noted that Gregson was blocking the door. I had not even seen him move over to it.

“You then went to your brother's room and killed him”, Holmes continued mercilessly, “I would suggest by smothering.”

“But why did the doctor they called not spot that?” I asked.

“Because he was not looking for it”, Holmes explained. “He was not taken to a body and asked 'how did this man die?'. He was shown a body and asked 'did this man die of a heart-attack?' Knowing that the patient had a weak heart he would have concurred. But”... and the his face lit up triumphantly, “he did say one damning thing in his report.”

“What?” I asked.

“The victim had a small goose-feather in his mouth, from his own pillow!”

My friend looked meaningfully at Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley.

“A jury will not hang me on that!” the man sneered.

Holmes suddenly turned on Master Nathaniel Wriothesley, who quailed before him.

“Gregson, Pelham”, he said harshly. “I think that you should take young Master Wriothesley in for questioning. Perhaps you might point out to him in detail just what happens to convicted criminals of his tender age in our modern gaols. They are not nice places _at all!”_

The two sergeants had moved to stand either side of the boy, who looked up in alarm, clearly terrified.

“Father?” he quavered.

“Come with us, sonny”, Inspector Pelham smiled nastily. “It's going to be a long, long night for the likes of you!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There is little more to be said. Nathaniel Wriothesley confessed all and tried to lay the blame fully on his father for his uncle's murder. The boy was sentenced to twenty years in jail at the end of which time he immediately left the country for parts unknown. His father pleaded innocent but twelve good men and true did not believe him, and he swung from the gallows before the year was out. One Mr. Ryland Wriothesley, a real distant cousin, inherited Beaumont Priory but sold it on immediately rather than live there and the house passed outside the family, I know not to whom. It was sold again and knocked down for a housing development some years later, turning Beaumont into quite a small town.

Christmas that year was quiet (and mercifully free from any further 'supernatural' happenings!) but in the lull before the New Year I received a letter.

“They wish to publish your story about the 'Gloria Scott'”, Holmes observed.

I did not even ask how he knew. Little surprised me about the man any more.

“They do”, I said. “In six instalments in the magazine starting next month. And they have advanced a most handsome fee.” I looked across at him suddenly feeling almost shy for some reason. “Half of it is yours, really.”

He smiled at me.

“Thank you my friend”, he said, “but as you know I am financially secure. You should add it to your savings for when you meet the future Mrs. Watson.”

He left to go to his room and I stared after him thoughtfully. He was of course right. It was hardly as if the two of us would go on solving cases forever, was it? 

So why did that thought lie so heavy in my gut?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Henry Wriothesley, who became earl on his father's death in 1581. A troubled character, his involvement in the Essex Plot of 1601 led to the death sentence but Elizabeth commuted this to life imprisonment and this turned out to be a good deal as when she died and James the First acceded two years later, Southampton was let out. He was survived by only one son with whom the title died out in 1667._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	27. Interlude: The Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1880\. .. are wont to go awry.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

'''You should add it to your savings for when you meet the future Mrs. Watson.”'

It should not have been possible to feel hurt from one's own words but when I had said that sentence to Watson at the end of the Wriothesley case, I had felt a shiver run down my spine. He was not just handsome – he always blushed so prettily when I or my half-brother Campbell teased him about being a loss to the latter's profession – but he had a nobility of spirit that shone through as well, making him beautiful inside and out. Besides, I knew that he would have been mortified had I mentioned the b-word in his presence but he was beautiful in the sense that Zeus himself might have felt inclined to take him into the heavens as he had done to Ganymede.

_The King of the Gods would have had to fight me for him first!_

It seemed incredible but we had lived together for nearly five years now, first in Montague Street and now here in Cramer Street. We both knew that our time here would be ended when Miss Hellingly and her family (including her irritating and pungent sister who had been round again the other day, worse luck!) emigrated to the United States in a little over two years from now, but I fully intended to keep Watson wherever I moved next in my life.

Fate, it turned out, had other plans. And the disaster that lay only a few years ahead of me would be mostly of my own making.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


End file.
